The Golden Age
by greaves
Summary: "And we beasts remember, even if Dwarfs forget, that Narnia was never right except when a Son of Adam was King..." Because it doesn't follow that they would lead Narnia into its Golden Age and then it could all just fall away.
1. Chapter 1

Warning: There is some very naughty language here. Also, prepare yourself for the cliche.

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><p>CHAPTER ONE<p>

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><p>She supposed she should have suspected her friends would do this to her.<p>

She pushed herself up into a kneeling position, adjusting with a wince the glasses that had been crushed into her face, then removing them entirely to rub at her eyes. Her hand returned smudged with glitter and mascara, and she sighed. She wiped the offending matter onto her jeans and scrubbed about her eyes some more, hoping that she wouldn't too closely resemble a raccoon at the end.

She ran her fingers through her hair slowly, more to make sure that there wasn't any debris caught in it as opposed to actually "combing" it. Her hair was always full of tangles no matter what. And then, glasses restored and all available methods of grooming performed, she started looking around for her friends.

She didn't see anyone.

She was in a sort of clearing—meadow? her vocabulary tried to supply, but it was stuttering still from the effects of the night before—and a small one at that. There was maybe a ten foot radius of grass surrounding her before the trees started. She didn't recognize the area at all, and in any case, she was pretty certain that the wood behind Chase's property didn't contain anything other than oaks and a few maples.

She didn't know what kinds of trees these were, as oaks and maples were the only trees she trusted herself to properly identify, but they weren't oaks or maples. (Beech, maybe? Ash?)

"Hello?" she called out loudly. "Chase? Lily?"

Nothing answered her, and she started to realize how abominably quiet it was. If there was a roadway near here, it wasn't a busy one. And if there were any people, they were doing a remarkable job at being silent.

Marcie stood and staggered a bit. Her foot was starting to fall asleep and she was hung-over. Water and an aspirin sounded wonderful. A toilet, as well.

She walked to the edge of the clearing, then, feeling nervous about actually going _into _the trees somewhere and getting lost, stopped.

"Deirdre?" she yelled out desperately. If this was just a trick, Deirdre would be the first to give it all up. She always felt too badly about pranks to let them go too far.

Deirdre didn't answer.

Marcie felt a curdling of fear and anger begin in her, combining with her already present headache and forming a truly foul mood. Chase, Jason, Lily, Ryan, Deirdre—she was going to murder them all. Dumping her—still drunk!—in a wood that she didn't know, with no cell phone on her or water or food or anything. Pranks were one thing, and that they all enjoyed. But this was just cruel!

"You fucktards, I'm going to kill you all!" she shouted.

The only reply was some birds chattering in a nearby tree.

Marcie wanted nothing more than to curl back up and fall asleep, wake up, and find out that she was really on the floor of Chase's kitchen and that this whole bit with the trees and clearing was just a dream. It was, even, tempting.

But Marcie's dreams were never very vivid, particularly not when she'd been drinking. And this damned clearing, empty as it was of all signs of civilization, was _vivid_.

So she did not curl up into a ball. This was in part due to her desperate need to find a toilet and in part a refusal to sit put and get rescued, even if it may have been the more logical course of action. (Inaction?)

Deciding that any direction was as good as any other, Marcie walked forward, glad that her usual habit of losing her shoes when drunk was not in evidence.

Her riding boots, so very in vogue in America, were less so in England, but she'd figured that shoes were shoes and at least she wasn't being bluntly American by wearing sneakers everywhere. At least boots were practical for walking around in the wilderness. Not that she'd intended to wear them in the wilderness, or wilderness any more wild than the acre or so of land behind Chase's house.

Chase had invited her and Deirdre, Jason, Ryan, and Lily to his absurdly nice, parent-free home to celebrate the end of Hilary term, as they were all in the same residential college, shared a number of classes, and had done some bonding over Professor Milligan's dry lecture style.

Unfortunately, neither Professor Milligan nor any other professor had instructed her on what to do if she woke up in the middle of nowhere without any means of contacting the outside world (and probably no satellite connections even if she did have those means). And because Marcie had had no such lectures, was victim to a vicious hangover—she didn't _think_ that any of them would put something in her drink, even for a joke—and was stumbling despite her best efforts to place her feet carefully, Marcie was swearing freely in a sort of half-mumble, adding in bits of British cursing whenever it sounded good.

Another thing her friends were good for was swearing. They pretended to intellectualism and being beyond such tawdry nonsense for of course they could express their displeasure perfectly well without profanity, but none of them besides, occasionally, Jason, was actually above it. "Bloody" and "blast" didn't sound as good in her American accent—and oh, how they had insisted that it was _she_ with the accent—but they were wonderful as curse words.

Marcie wasn't sure how long she'd been walking after a while, besides "a while" and a guess at fifteen minutes. So probably a half mile at the pace she was going. Maybe. In any case, she hadn't seen anyone for "a while" and had to pee as was only possible after lots of alcohol, first thing in the morning.

Well. She thought it was morning. The sun was out.

So, not seeing anyone and dismissing modesty as ridiculous at this point, Marcie found a patch of grass and made do without toilet paper or toilet.

She continued walking, still swearing, but more wearily now. Eventually she stopped altogether and proceeded with only a huff every now and then. She'd noticed that there had been an awful lot of birds about, flying overhead, perching on trees, flying in a sort of hop from tree to tree after her. Crows, she thought the majority of them were, though there were a fair amount of songbirds, too, all of them chirping and cawing at one another quietly.

She shook herself. _Birds are not following you, Marcie. Nor are they talking. You're hung-over and delusional._

But the trees, now those _were_ rustling quite a bit and Marcie didn't feel much of a breeze. And, well, it was strange, but it didn't seem to be March anymore. Spring was in full swing if the pollen floating about, the leaves, the color was anything to go by. She couldn't believe that she hadn't noticed it before, but supposed it was just as well since she wasn't dressed for March with nothing more than jeans and a sweater—_It's called a jumper, Marcie,_ she could practically hear Chase saying, with mock-exasperation—which she was actually a bit warm in. And she couldn't recall why she would have been outside last night, even with drinking, without a coat. She always lost her shoes, but remembered her coat.

Marcie's bad mood wore off and was replaced with a growing sense of uneasiness. There were too many strange things going on to be simply mad. She'd called out multiple times on what was now a very long walk to no avail. And, dear god, she was _starving_. Certainly that explained some of the roiling in her gut?

It was another half hour or so before she saw the beginning of a break in the trees.

_Finally._

She was covered in scratches and detritus by now. She'd shifted away from a particularly forward crow zooming ever closer around her face, only to then careen sideways into a very thorny bush. Hardly ideal. Some fluffy bits of her sweater—jumper—had been claimed by that bush, as well as a small tangle of her hair. Only vociferous swearing and a short breathing exercise had calmed her. And she was pretty sure that she'd seen that bloody crow make off with some of her hair. She was certain that it was a crow, now.

But sure enough, after passing through the final bunch of trees, Marcie was greeted by a prairie. What she thought was a prairie. She hadn't had geography since fifth grade. There were some small hills, the occasional tree, and the whole of it was covered with tall grasses. (Not the trees. The trees were normal and grass-free and, she identified delightedly, oak.) It was really very pretty how it was blowing in the wind, she reflected.

Unfortunately, there were no longer trees to shade her eyes from the sun, and the light provoked her headache. Blinking excessively, Marcie scanned the land before her, hoping to spy some sort of building or road. She'd settle for a hiking trail, even, or a river, because she was dreadfully thirsty besides being hungry and having a headache. She didn't even care if the water had parasites in it by now.

Marcie noticed a rather large blob in the distance with something detestably shiny at the center. She rubbed her eyes with a growl then looked again, shading her vision with a hand.

Well. It certainly wasn't a car.

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><p>AN: So. Here it is. My utterly original take on the "girl falls into Narnia" story. Shocking, I know. But I would like to know what you think, so please leave a review.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Forgot this bit the last time: I don't own any part of _The Chronicles of Narnia_ or any of it's associated material_._ Nor is this making me money.

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><p>CHAPTER TWO<p>

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><p>No, this fast-moving blob with its detestably shiny center was certainly not a car. What exactly it was, she fumbled to believe. Maybe…maybe her friends <em>had<em> drugged her? After all, this morning or day or what have you had been nothing but bizarre. Mysteriously relocated to an indeterminate locale, unfathomable weather changes, and now—this? _Really?_

No. She was drugged, and that was that. Drugs would explain what logic could not. (Her inner Sherlock Holmes, however, was smugly quoting that infamous phrase about the impossible.)

Because there was no way—none!—that she was actually seeing a veritable caravan of zoo animals running with an armored man on a horse.

It was the last, most impossible thing in a string of impossible events. So Marcie sat down. It seemed her best option.

Presumably, they were heading for her anyways. She quite clearly was not supposed to be Here, wherever Here was, and somehow They knew that. Egotistical that this was all centering around her, perhaps, but she was well shut of the whole deal. She was physically miserable, and her mental capacities were not currently suited to logical performance. It was altogether quite tiring, and she would sound egotistical if she wanted. Either this was some sort of madcap experience and she would soon be cut down by this medieval knight errant figure before getting torn apart by tigers, or this was a madcap experience that would somehow work out for the best. There wasn't much for her to do about it now but sit put and wait for it to happen.

She ended up waiting an irritatingly long time, as it seemed that being within seeing distance did not guarantee a short period of travel. Particularly on horseback, she supposed. Fortunately, there was a tree to her back and it was nearly as good as a chair.

Finally, though, the rider and his nontraditional party were before her. (With "before her" being about five yards away. Did they think she was going to bite? Actually, no, she'd take that back; she wanted those cats as far from her as possible.)

The animals—it wasn't a caravan of zoo animals, to be fair. Just the one tiger, but with a pair of cheetahs, two wolves, and some kind of dog, maybe a basset hound. It was the tiger and cheetahs that had made her think of a zoo, which Marcie thought was reasonable enough. Birds, which she was beginning to think really had been following her were landed in the trees at her back. A small number of crows circled overhead, before joining the rest in the trees, and one was perched comfortably on the man's shoulder.

The man himself was in chain mail with some kind of tunic over it. The metal sleeves of the mail were glinting cruelly. Marcie would be the first to admit her ignorance about medieval wear, but surely it wasn't normal for chain mail to be so shiny? Then she shut herself up on that thought, because nothing was normal about today.

She could clearly see the handle of a dagger at his side, and there was a shield strapped down somehow, as well. It was even shinier than the man's blasted chain mail. He probably had a sword, too, somewhere, Marcie guessed. But he cut a fine figure, she thought. Very manly, even if the look was a bit outdated.

The animals must have thought him impressive, too, as they were all waiting around him in various stances of anticipation.

"Who trespasses in Narnia?" was the question posed to her in a very regal type of voice, accompanying this sort of _who dares offend my realm_ gravitas.

Marcie didn't have a clue what he was on about.

"Haven't a clue what Narnia is, sir," she replied, hoping the "sir" would earn her points for politeness and override her obvious lack of enthusiasm for the subject. Couldn't he just knock her upside the head with that big broadsword she was sure was on his other side, put her out of her misery? Her head was pounding something awful, and she was much too fed-up to deal with this. And literally every shift he made caused his numerous shiny bits of gear to twinkle dazzlingly at her head.

"If not from Narnia, then from whence do you hail, lady? Galma?"

She just looked at him—stupidly, she was sure, and let him come to his own conclusions.

"Archenland, then? The Seven Isles?"

She shook her head before realizing that it was a bad idea. Marcie rubbed at her temples.

"Are you unwell, lady?" he asked concernedly, clip-clopping on his horse a bit closer. Marcie did a little flinch-blink at the motion. He hadn't lost his regal air, but he wasn't looking at her anymore like he was about to do some old-fashioned form of justice either. She could she him looking her over again, with his gaze lingering at the scratches on her cheek and forearms.

"I'm not a lady, sir, just Marcie. And I'm fine. Only hung-over and then I fell in a bush."

God, she sounded like an idiot.

One of the cheetahs started making some odd whuffling sounds, and Marcie squinted at it suspiciously. Was it _laughing_ at her?

"Well, Not-a-Lady Marcie"—and she could hear the whuffle disappear entirely as soon as the man started talking, which really made her think that it _was_ laughing at her—"if you are not seriously injured, may I ask where you _did_ come from?"

"England," she said promptly.

The reaction was not what she expected. She'd fully anticipated him staring at her blankly and maybe asking some polite questions about whether or not England was some place nearby, perhaps with some other name. She was a bit surprised when he didn't do any of those things, and instead had a look like a sudden temperature shift that caused snow—startling, and leaving one with equal parts dismay and wonder.

"England," he said, and it wasn't a question, it was a test, like he wasn't sure he could say the word. The animals around him seemed to be as mystified as Marcie by his abrupt, absorbed behavior, and had turned to him with what looked like concern, which was, of course, ridiculous she reminded herself.

He'd completely forgotten about her with the revelation of this word, until he suddenly hadn't. "How did you leave England, Marcie?"

She opened her mouth but her vocal chords weren't working correctly. It was a question with crushing implications. She had left England, she knew now. She wasn't in England, and she wasn't with Chase or any of the others any longer, and she might not be able to be with them again. She'd quite simply left, and outside of her volition.

The man's palpable eagerness to hear her didn't make it any easier to respond. "I—I don't know." Marcie swallowed uneasily. "I woke up."

It was a pathetic response, measly and thin, but there wasn't anything better. It seemed to satisfy him, though.

"Woke up," he said, and clearly to himself—his words were a barely intelligible mumble. "Not quite how we came through, but the trees did say"—

"The_ trees_ said?" Marcie interrupted sharply. Her voice was working just fine now that she had something to focus on, something that wasn't the awful and befuddling mess she was in. "Trees don't say. They're _trees_."

"Of course they're trees," he said, looking at her fully again. The expression on his face was either pity or sympathy. She couldn't tell, but didn't like either one. "But this is Narnia. So there are trees and then there are Trees."

Marcie froze. She was sitting against a tree. Or perhaps a Tree. She scooted forward until she was no longer touching it.

"So trees talk in Narnia?" She tried her hardest not to sound incredulous, but she only managed part-way.

"Among other things," the man said cryptically. "But, they are perhaps more appropriately called dryads."

"Like the Greek myths?" None of her incredulity was filtered out this time. Not that it mattered, since he only frowned in confusion.

"Never mind," she said hastily. There was a pause.

"England," he said again, and there was a hint of melancholy in his tone. He was, once again, not talking to her or anyone in particular. "We kept calling it Spare Oom because couldn't remember it properly. England."

"But I'm in Narnia, now," said Marcie, and she sounded sullen. "Where trees talk, apparently, _among other things_."

He seemed amused now, and had a bit of a grin. "Well, surely you didn't think I traveled with tigers, wolves, cheetahs, crows, and hounds all the time?"

He wasn't funny.

"You're not funny," said Marcie. Doubtless her scowl lacked it usual ferocity, as he kept shifting dammit and she had her eyes about half open for protection.

"But Jalur thinks I am. Don't you, Jalur?"

"Only when I must, _Sire_," the tiger said. The tiger said. The tiger _said_. And it said _dryly_.

This decided Marcie. Her friends had drugged her.

_Sire_ feigned hurt. "Come now, Jalur. Certainly my impeccable wit and sharp timing cause you nothing but hilarity."

"Undoubtedly, King."

Marcie may or may not have choked a bit here.

"Are you sure you're all right, Marcie?" King/Sire/crazy-armored-man-with-a-zoo-for-company asked her, dropping the banter. He was doing his concerned look again.

Marcie gaped at him. "Are you _insane_? Of course I'm not all right, I haven't been all right since I woke up! I was _supposed_ to be hung-over in England and instead I'm hung over in this confounded _Narnia_ where trees talk and 'among other things' means tigers and presumably other animals, and your stupid shiny armor is too bloody shiny, and I'd kill for a coffee, and on top of it all you're a _king_? I think that I am decidedly _not all right_."

She glared. She'd gotten a bit hysterical, she could admit, but he'd asked for it. She needed coffee, food, and probably a nap. At least he looked a bit sheepish. Oh, all right, she'd been stupid and overreacted, and she shouldn't have yelled, and she'd apologize when she calmed down a bit more.

Then he ruined it. "Technically, it's not armor. It's a hauberk."

A small, inarticulate cry came from the back of Marcie's throat.

The crow that was sitting on that ridiculous king's shoulder interrupted before she could say anything. "I think that we can safely say that Marcie is not a threat, King Edmund." The bird had the audacity to give her a pointed look. "However, she's clearly out of sorts and could probably do with some food. I think that we should return."

"Right you are, Sallowpad," said King Edmund with an abashed cough. Marcie hadn't known that coughs could be abashed. "It looks as if we'll be sharing a horse, Not-a-Lady Marcie. Cair Paravel isn't so far away, but you'll not want to walk it, I should think."

His horse walked over to her and he put out his hand in a grand gesture. Marcie stared at it dubiously from her position on the ground. She stood up slowly, biting her lip.

"I've never ridden a horse," she admitted, finally.

King Edmund looked surprised but covered it almost instantly. "Not to worry. I'll help you up and then all you have to do is sit."

He slid down with an ease that made Marcie self-conscious. He knelt at the horse's side, hands cupped. "Put your left foot here and swing your right leg over. You'll want to be sitting behind the saddle."

Marcie stepped tentatively, hand atop the horse—wasn't he supposed to be a king?—and was suddenly hurtling upwards. She managed to move her leg over just in time. And then she was sitting on a horse.

It swung its head back at her and snorted. Marcie, in turn, eyed it with distrust.

There was a slight tug to the side, and then he was sitting ahead of her. He was very close and Marcie could feel herself blushing just for the sheer fact that there was hardly any distance between her and a man she didn't know but had been called a king.

"We'll be going very slowly," he said, fortunately not turning his head back enough to see her face. "And we'll likely have to walk some of it. You're not very heavy and Hector is a strong horse, but it's really not best for you to sit on his kidneys for so long." Marcie startled. Hector's kidneys? "And"—he turned around fully this time, with a grin—"you might want to hold on to me so you don't fall off."

Marcie really did not want to know how red her face was. But she put her arms around him obligingly, more worried about plummeting to the ground than a teasing king.

They started off. Marcie clamped her arms a bit tighter with the sudden movement and released her grip only when she felt that she had the rhythm down.

"Glad you're dressed for this, Not-a-Lady Marcie," he said back at her. "Not sure how we would have managed if you'd had a skirt."

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><p>AN: The undiscerning eye will notice characters created by rthstewart. Go read her things. Also, feedback of all sorts is always appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

Once more, a reminder that I am claiming no ownership over _The Chronicles of Narnia._

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><p>CHAPTER THREE<p>

Marcie was glad to walk. Hector was a perfectly good horse, she was sure, but she worried about crushing his kidneys, and well, she didn't have a saddle. She thought riding would be much more comfortable with one.

She'd managed to slide off unassisted and without any real misfortunes in grace. An accomplishment, no doubt, especially since dismounting had caused her head to start swirling around menacingly. But the motion sickness from earlier had stopped now that she was moving on her own two feet.

Conversation was awkward. King Edmund was polite but not exactly forthcoming and his earlier ease in manner was gone. There had been no more roguish grinning and he only spoke when answering a question, even if his responses extended beyond the cursory.

Marcie hadn't asked very many questions anyway. She was curious about Narnia, but King Edmund, while not forbidding, didn't seem to be feeling particularly expansive.

Marcie didn't find that too suspect, really. The name England had clearly had a powerful impact on the man, so of course he would rather think than talk to a stranger. She'd asked her questions and pretty much just shut up. (Queen Lucy was _not_ his wife, she'd been informed after Sallowpad had flown ahead to speak with her.) She wasn't feeling chatty either, though the reasons were more physiological than mental.

But Marcie was, at heart, a curious person and so questions could be infrequent but would never stop altogether.

"So why are you traveling with so many Beasts?" Marcie asked. (Talking Beasts or Beasts, she'd learned. Not animals. And, no, they did not eat Talking Cows, few though those were. There were apparently plenty of normal cows for that.) She kicked the little puffs off a dandelion with her boot as she moved. The seeds spread out satisfyingly.

The Beasts she spoke of were moving in a rough sort of circle around them and Hector. Marcie thought the cheetahs and Jalur looked a bit bored, but she imagined that Jalur always looked bored.

"You caused a stir," King Edmund replied straightforwardly. "Narnia has been perfectly calm for weeks, and all of a sudden the dryads and the birds are rushing to report that there's a woman in the Owlwood. No one was sure who you were or where you'd come from. You'd just sort of appeared. Narnia has had its trouble with witches in the past, and for all appearances you were here by magic. If you were a threat, we had to be prepared. A single Human woman isn't much trouble, but a witch is something else. We erred on the side of caution."

_If you were a threat, we had to be prepared_. It would seem that her original impression of getting skewered with a sword and then chewed up by tigers wasn't as far off as she would have liked. That it hadn't happened was somehow not as comforting as it should have been.

Marcie kicked some more dandelions, hoping there was no such thing as Dandelions. She was fairly sure that King Edmund would have mentioned it.

And the _for all appearances, you were here by magic_. Well, that was just great. Talking Beasts, kingdoms, dryads, and now witches. But she wasn't a witch, so that didn't explain much. She hadn't decided to come here, certainly. So she'd—what? Been brought to Narnia?

"How did I get here, then?" Marcie asked. "I definitely don't have any magic, so I didn't do it."

Apparently she'd jolted him out of some thought again, because he was slow to respond. "I strongly suspect that Aslan has something to do with it."

"And who's that?"

"Aslan?"

"Yes."

"He's a Lion. Or rather, _the_ Lion."

Marcie thought that his reply lacked a bit of meat. "But why would _the_ Lion bring me here? For that matter, how?

"I am not even going to attempt to answer your first question," King Edmund said with a bit of a laugh. "Aslan is very good about not explaining his motives until they're already obvious. As to your second question, it's misleading, perhaps, to think of Him as just the Lion. Aslan created all of Narnia. So he is a Lion, but also very much more than a Talking Beast."

"He created Narnia?" Marcie thought she could see where this was leading.

"Along with the rest of the world."

Oh, yes, this was exactly what she thought it was. "You mean that Aslan is your deity," she said flatly.

"Yes, He is," King Edmund responded impassively.

"But he—I'm sorry, are you saying that he's _corporeal_?"

She was more than a little disconcerted by King Edmund's long, measured look, but she tried her best not to show it. It wasn't the defensive look of someone about to justify their religious beliefs, or the look of offense assumed when one's religion was called into question. Marcie knew both of those looks very well, but this wasn't either of those, and she didn't quite know what it was. She tried to be fair and acknowledge that her disbelief was likely insulting.

"Yes, He is."

The 'h' in 'He' was again noticeably capitalized but King Edmund's voice was otherwise neutral.

Marcie chewed on this for a while. She wasn't about to say anything else—the last thing she needed was to insult the king of the land she'd been dropped in. But it seemed a bit ridiculous. A Lion god? Moreover, a Lion god with physical form? (Marcie preferred to entertain theories on cracks in space and time, but if King Edmund wanted to call it the work of his Lion god then she wouldn't protest.)

On the other hand, she had gotten to Narnia somehow. She didn't know of any technology from England that could have gotten her here, and—trees talked in Narnia, and so did Beasts, and Greek mythology seemed to be alive and well. Problems with witches had been mentioned like they had happened recently, and King Edmund had spoken about them in a way that made Marcie think that he'd dealt with them personally. Marcie didn't know if 'witch' was meant in the literal, cackle-and-curse sense, or if it was just some misconception of technology as magic that was then labeled 'witch,' but the evidence so far seemed to point to the former. Magic was apparently nothing new here. She wasn't about to go and start worshipping a god, but it might not be unreasonable to entertain the possibility that the rules for Earth were not the same as the rules for Narnia.

This did not mean that wormholes were eliminated from the list of culprits, however.

Marcie didn't ask any more questions. She wondered about the Lion, and whether she might be able to persuade him to put her back, if indeed an oversized housecat had somehow brought her here. She wondered what would happen if she had to stay.

They kept walking for a time, before riding Hector again. And, during this, Marcie thought. It was hard to think clearly. She'd been having this problem ever since waking up, though, and Marcie thought that she was managing well enough. She wasn't dead, seriously injured, or imprisoned, and that should count for something.

But if she had to stay, _where_ would she stay? King Edmund didn't seem the type to just throw her back into the forest where she came from, but she didn't think that she was being taken to Cair Paravel because she needed a place to live, either. Marcie was entirely out of her element. She was used to things like computers and cell phones and cars and a whole lot of other technological things beginning with 'c.' She was useful enough in her world, but it was abundantly clear that Narnia was not on Earth. It seemed she'd just gotten herself planted in the Middle Ages of Europe. She didn't know a damn thing about how to function without running water or refrigerators, or electricity, or grocery stores. She had no role, and the thought that ideas on women's lib were likely as antiquated to her as King Edmund's armor was something that Marcie tried very hard not to consider. Because if women were treated the same as they had been historically—still were, actually, in many parts of the world—Marcie was not only useless but powerless. She didn't even have money or status to protect her. All she could do was hope that the unusualness of sister ruling alongside a brother, simultaneously and apparently equally, was a signal for other oddities in Narnian society.

That aside, she needed to find a way to talk with this Lion.

88

Cair Paravel was smaller than she had expected. And architecturally, it was a bit strange. There was a difference between castles and palaces, she knew, with castles being the fortress and palaces being a less defensible, prettier place where generally a lot of parties were held. Cair Paravel could have passed for either one. Marcie thought that she might be able to deduct a couple of things from this.

Narnia was rich. Not that castles weren't money pits or anything, but palaces were made with extravagance in mind. They weren't a show of strength, but a show of wealth.

Second, Narnia had wars. (And what country didn't have wars? It was practically part of being a country, to have wars.) Of course, it made sense that Cair Paravel should be able to hold off intruders since it was so close to the sea and open to attack that way. Though if the palace/castle was built by the sea that suggested that the countries that _could_ invade by sea wouldn't, that they were friendly. Narnia trusted its neighbors by sea enough to build near it, which was tactically less great, but didn't trust them enough to build a royal home without some fortress-like qualities. Smart. But all of these "duh" sort of points added up to mean that Narnia wasn't alone. She'd guessed just that when King Edmund had been asking where she'd come from, but those places could have been cities, even though that did seem rather unlikely. In any case, other countries existed here, and that was important to know. Marcie wondered if they were just as weirded out by the talking animals as she was.

The size was important, too. Cair Paravel wasn't very big. It was grand enough, but…compact, and maybe carefully so. Just big enough not to look puny and thus make Narnia look poor, but small enough that…what? No, Marcie was stuck here. Maybe Narnia wasn't as rich as she'd first thought? Whatever. Marcie gave up on this train of thought and rubbed at her temples.

She'd never been able to handle wine very well. Beer and hard liquor, those she did fine with, she wasn't a total lightweight, but there was something about wine that invariably got her drunk faster and made her hangover worse and longer. And…well. She'd had a lot. More than what was usually enough to do her in. It followed that she'd have a terrible hangover, but, really. She couldn't ever remember one this bad, and it seemed to be getting worse as time went on, not better. Maybe it was something to do with inter-world travel? Marcie wasn't prepared to swear off wine altogether, but she imagined that it would be a long, long time before she had more than a glass.

Her head felt like it was going to explode.

Marcie was getting less and less impressed with Narnia and all of its stupid, weird little quirks. She'd jumped at seeing a centaur and tried not to stare because the centaur had a bow in its hands and she didn't want to get shot at for gawking like a four year-old, but then she'd hardly even blinked at the satyr—faun, maybe, she couldn't remember if there was a difference—or the dwarf. It was probably shock or something, but she just couldn't bring herself to care. She was ravenous, exhausted, and likely ill-tempered, and trying really hard not to let it show. She needed to make a good impression.

They were nearing the castle/palace/Cair Paravel Actual and almost to the doors when King Edmund spoke to her. "For now, I'll have Ibiza take you to the Palace Physician and have those scratches seen to." Palace! Aha! "Afterwards, you're welcome in the dining hall for a meal. I believe we're arriving at the tail end of luncheon. I doubt your visit with the Physician will take overly long, but you'll be properly fed and watered in any case."

Marcie had jerked out of her stupor as soon as he'd begun to talk. "Thank you very much, King Edmund. I'm sorry for the trouble."

"No trouble, Marcie. I imagine I'll be seeing you soon."

88

Ibiza was a very grumpy Dog. And, she realized, probably not a Basset Hound like she'd guessed earlier. Some kind of scent-sensitive hunter breed, she could tell from the ears, but in the case of animals, Marcie was much better at determining basic biological principles than identifying breeds. She found the strange little tricks of evolution much more interesting than names.

They wove through a few hallways before Ibiza parked himself outside a door. "Give it a knock. I'll wait here until you're done."

Marcie rapped the unscathed knuckles of her left hand against the wooden door, which opened almost instantly. She took an involuntary step back as she realized that the Palace Physician was a Porcupine, something that was ridiculous even by Narnian standards, surely.

"Ah, you must be that girl that popped up in the Owlwood!" it exclaimed. Marcie would hazard a guess at the Physician being male, but didn't dare make any assumptions. It was, after all, a _Porcupine_.

"Er, yes," she stuttered. "I'm sorry, I was told that you would look at my scratches?"

"Of course, of course, come in and sit," the Physician said, waddling its way back through a room so crowded that Marcie might have expected a picture of it to appear next to the word 'claustrophobia' in the dictionary.

Marcie sat on the indicated stool.

Everything imaginably linked to medicinal study was packed into this room. There were so many books crammed onto the shelves that it was a wonder they didn't fall off from overflow, and there were innumerable herbs hanging, and rows and rows of jars and pots stacked and shoved onto any flat surface available. Marcie thought she spied some models shunted into the corner. There were, too, stray papers and half-melted candles, quills, and the occasional inkpot. A fire was crackling lowly in a hearth, a large, iron kettle hanging over it. It seemed to be the only area that was kept conscientiously tidy, the mound of ashes very small and the stone around it remarkably clean.

The entire space had a sense not of disorder but of carefully labeled piles, each about to topple over onto the next, so precariously were they built.

The Physician approached her. "Roll up your sleeves, if you would."

Marcie obliged, eyeing the Porcupine's spines with unease. Her left arm was clutched in gentle claws, and was drawn nearer the Physician's face for easier viewing. The inspection carried over to her other arm before the Porcupine peered intently and rather unnervingly at the scratches on her cheeks and chin.

"And how did these happen?" it asked, absorbedly examining her hands once more. "A thorn bush, I would presume?"

"Yes. I, um, fell into one," she said lamely, feeling the stupidity of the event all over again.

"And have you any other scratches than the ones I see?" it asked, kindly, perhaps noticing her embarrassment. "I notice that you have some snags in your clothing. Perhaps there are more there?"

"You know, I'm not really sure," said Marcie. "If I do, they haven't been bothering me. Not like the ones on my hands."

"Yes, those _are_ nasty," it said with enthusiasm. "Not crippling, of course, but very inconvenient, very uncomfortable. But if you wouldn't mind letting me have a look at your side—you fell on your right, I think."

"Oh. Right."

There was something distinctly odd about sitting in nothing but a bra and jeans in front of a Porcupine physician, but Marcie smothered her discomfort. It wasn't so much that she was being treated by a Talking Beast that bothered her; a doctor was a doctor no matter their form. Marcie wasn't in the habit of getting embarrassed over body parts in medical context anyway. No, she was more worried that the still-open door would gain passerby that wouldn't share her pragmatism about being half-naked.

She did end up having a couple of minor cuts on her ribcage, which the Physician cleaned, saying that they would heal up nicely without any help. The rest of her cuts were cleaned as well with a liquid that smelled unbelievably foul, and then dabbed with some kind of balmy paste. A gash on her right palm even warranted a bandage.

"I'll make sure that Mrs. Furner knows to get some bandages and paste for you. Change the wrapping on your hand whenever you feel it gets too dirty or whenever it gets wet, but at least daily. Apply the paste each morning and night to your cuts until they've closed up properly. Of course, find me if you have questions or problems."

Marcie examined the glistening back of her hand, where some unserious cuts had been spared the bandage. "What kind of paste is this?"

The Physician seemed delighted by her question, quills set alarmingly aquiver. "Calendula. Nice, bright orange flower, good for cuts, scrapes, and other skin ailments. Tincture, poultice, teas, it's very versatile. I used witch hazel for the disinfectant of course, but the calendula will speed up the healing. Slippery elm would work as well, but that would require a poultice and that's rather messier than would be practical considering the cuts are on your hands and face."

"Elm as in the tree?"

"Yes, from the bark. Good as a tea for gastrointestinal purposes, settling the stomach. Meadowsweet as well, though that's used as more of a daily tonic and nearly impossible to find besides. Not very practical, meadowsweet."

Marcie nodded carefully, in hopes of not agitating her headache—but then she was with the Physician, wasn't she?

"Er, Physician"—she trailed off suggestively, hoping to get a name out of him or her in order to settle the debate on the Porcupine's gender.

The Physician complied beautifully. "Paulus, of course. Terribly sorry not to introduce myself, but I'm not much of one for formalities and tend to forget things like that."

"Well, I can't really say anything about it, can I, since I never introduced myself either. My name's Marcie," she said, feeling very smooth. Male! She might've guessed that from his voice, she supposed, but for all she knew female Porcupines had deep voices. Then Marcie tried, with a jab at humor, "I was wondering if you might possibly have something for a hangover? Not enough for me to get dropped into the Owlwood, apparently, it has to be when I'm still half-drunk."

Physician Paulus chuckled a bit, turning around to shift through jars again. "Yes, Aslan likes His little jokes." Marcie tried not to twitch at the mention of this supposed deity who thought it was funny to transport her between worlds while suffering from a hangover. "So symptoms? Headache, nausea? Any vomiting?"

"No vomiting, thankfully," she replied. "Headache and nausea, but mostly headache."

"Mmm," said the Physician. He moved to the fireplace, swinging out the kettle and measuring what looked like wood chips into it before swinging it back over the fire. He tossed a log from the nearby pile into the hearth. "Willow bark tea should take care of that. I'll just see if Cook can't scrounge up some ginger biscuits in the meantime. Very good for nausea, those." He shuffled around, returning the pot to a shelf, with a seeming lack of care for where exactly it went. Marcie hoped it was just because he knew his stores so well.

"I'm afraid I simply must ask," the Physician said abruptly. "Restraining curiosity has never been a strong suit of mine. What precisely are those lenses on your face?"

Marcie finished tugging her sweater back on, trying not to smear balm everywhere. (The weather may have been too warm for March, but that didn't mean that it was warm enough to go shirtless.)

"My glasses?" Marcie asked. "Do you mean what are they for?"

"Yes, they're absolutely fascinating," he replied, quills once more betraying his excitement. Marcie explained their purpose, setting off another round of shivery quills, but struggled to describe the science behind them. She had a feeling that she would kick herself many more times in the near future for not knowing how basic elements of her lifestyle on Earth functioned. When she returned, she would be doing some research.

"It's something to do with bending light. Rather like a telescope or magnifying glass," said Marcie, hoping that those two devices existed in Narnia and that she wasn't just making useless connections.

Apparently there was some sort of equivalent, because Physician Paulus nodded with a murmur. "Yes, very clever. I'll have to speak with the Dwarfs and see if they can't imitate your lenses. I can think of several Beasts that would find them useful, though of course there is the rather large matter of determining the levels of magnifications and matching them with the visual impairment. You wouldn't happen to know, perhaps, a method for this?"

"No," she said without thinking. Then she corrected herself after a moment, "Actually, I might know a little. The finer details are beyond me, but I have obviously had my vision tested. Some of the basic principles I could probably help with, and I might be able to guess at some of the specifics. It would be a lot of me blundering around, but if you don't mind that, then I'm happy to help."

She was actually beginning to feel some enthusiasm for the topic herself, now. Even strictly as an intellectual pursuit, it was fascinating. Assuming the Dwarfs could put something together, implementing vision screening and monitoring the strengths of lenses…She wouldn't exactly be breaking new ground, but there was something compelling about filling in the blanks for medical procedures that were commonplace There and innovative Here. Furthermore, there was a certain amount of comfort to be gained from the knowledge that it _had_ been done before. Failure was only a matter of lacking cleverness.

"Wonderful," the Physician said, clapping his claws together. "You can come and see me at any time, of course. Not a task that can be solved in one afternoon!"

The discussion veered off into eye charts and how letters might be substituted for something that would suit Beasts that couldn't read, and then determining what was the appropriate baseline for vision in various Beasts. Marcie hadn't considered how difficult it must be to be the Palace Physician and cater to many kinds of physiological differences, some small and some decidedly huge. His knowledge would have to be very extensive, and Marcie found herself respecting the Physician more and more as they talked, especially since the conversation consisted mostly of the Physician theorizing to himself, with Marcie only able to offer sparing pieces of information or concept.

They were momentarily interrupted when Physician Paulus removed her tea from the fire, pouring it into a cup that had seemingly been plucked from nowhere, and then placing it into Marcie's hands. Marcie, fond of unscalded taste buds, took the excuse of waiting for her tea to cool to prod the Physician into continuing their lopsided dialogue.

When her tea was finished—the last few sips of it had been cold—she was shooed out to find herself a meal, but encouraged again to visit.

Marcie paused momentarily when he said that, but responded as positively as she could. She really didn't plan on staying in Narnia any longer than she had to, and had forgotten that entirely when she'd been talking with Physician Paulus. It was almost disturbing how easily she had slipped into a mindset of having an unlimited amount of time to chat about and implement vision screening.

She stepped outside the door and her sense of unbalance turned to guilt.

"I'm so sorry," she exclaimed to Ibiza. "I forgot completely that you were waiting. It was rude of me."

"Yes, it was," Ibiza said shortly. The Hound shook himself from a sitting position. "I'm not your babysitter. And I don't want to hear you apologize. The best apology is moving quickly so we can both get ourselves a meal."

The remainder of Marcie's good mood dissipated entirely as she followed the Hound, who was setting an aggressively paced trot.

"I really am very sorry," she said.

She got a grunt in reply, and spent the rest of the walk feeling wretched about her foul-up, pulling herself out of her self-reprimand (besides it being rude, she couldn't _afford_ to be rude) only when they were outside the open doors of what was apparently the dining hall, or wherever Marcie was supposed to finally eat.

"King Edmund and Queen Lucy are still inside. Goodbye."

Marcie looked after Ibiza, mouth slightly agape and eyebrows high. The Hound didn't so much spare her a backwards glance as he walked away, clearly glad that his duty was satisfied so that he could be free of her. His tone had surprised her in that he had said 'goodbye' instead of 'good riddance.'

She shut her mouth and gathered her questionable composure before entering. The king and queen were sitting opposite one another towards the end of the table, King Edmund still looking a bit travel stained. Jalur was crouched in a nearby corner, tail flicking occasionally, and there was a wolf resting on its haunches comfortably near Queen Lucy. They were talking earnestly, several plates of food still surrounding them but none directly before them, and looked up at her entrance.

Before Marcie could offer some sort of awkward greeting, Queen Lucy spoke.

"Oh, hello, Marcie!" she said, smiling brightly. She was dressed rather plainly for a queen, Marcie thought, in a dress with a minimum of fuss or frills, but she was very pretty and seemed to be genuinely glad to see Marcie. Marcie also took this time to remind herself that she was coated in greasy-looking balm, had undoubtedly more-horrible-than-usual hair, was wearing slightly torn clothing, and probably smelled like she needed a bath. If Queen Lucy did not seem fond of finery it could only work to save Marcie's ego. "Please sit, we saved some food for you. I'm sure you're starving."

Marcie replied with a thankful lack of stuttering or mumbling—she'd done quite enough of it already for one day. Two seats from the queen was an empty plate, surrounded by many other plates containing breads, cold cuts of meat, fruits, and vegetables. There was no possible way that Marcie could eat all of it on her own, though her stomach was encouraging her to try.

"I'm sorry to have kept you if you were waiting," said Marcie before serving herself. "But the Physician is, well, _fascinating_ and we lost track of time. I'm afraid that I already kept Mr. Ibiza waiting on me for longer than he liked."

"I'm sure that no harm was done," said King Edmund, and he didn't look overly concerned. "Ibiza is perhaps our most gifted scent Hound, but he is not known for his easygoing manner and waiting a few minutes more for a meal will not do him any injury. If he was gruff with you, I ask that it not cause you undue worry."

Marcie nodded, feeling a bit better. Her stomach chose this time to remind her of the food spread so enticingly around her. Marcie picked a few things off of each plate, hoping that she was not making some horrible faux pas. She fashioned herself a ham sandwich, very aware of the gentle scrutiny she was under from the monarchs present, and the less gentle watchfulness of Jalur and the Wolf.

"You said that you came from England, Marcie?" Queen Lucy asked. There was a sort of desperate curiosity in her face, and Marcie found herself feeling suddenly very sorry for the queen. King Edmund looked much calmer, but there was an undeniable interest in the way he was watching her. Marcie's sympathies extended. She remembered the surprised way that he had reacted to the mere name of England, and wasn't shocked that this was the first thing they wished to hear about. King Edmund had mentioned something about Spare Oom, which sounded utterly ridiculous, and spoke to just how poorly the king and queen remembered their origins.

There was, too, something chilling about it, which Marcie chose to ignore for the moment. She would be leaving as soon as she could speak with this Aslan, and so paralleling their forgetfulness was not in her future.

"Yes, I did," she said, making sure that she wasn't chewing. "I'm not English, though, I'm American, if the accent didn't give me away."

"Then why were you in England? If I'm not prying," Queen Lucy added hastily.

"I was studying at university," Marcie replied. "My second year. For—for literature."

Marcie put her sandwich down and stared at it for a moment, then tried to cover her discomfort by reaching for the nearby pitcher and filling her glass. It was water, thankfully, and she drank it thirstily. The Physician's tea was beginning to work, but Marcie felt dehydrated and her head did still hurt.

"Paulus did say that you were all right, yes?" said King Edmund abruptly.

Marcie, grateful for the change in topic, replied with more enthusiasm than her health really warranted.

"Yes. None of my scratches are anything major. I'm mostly just hung-over." She granted this last sentence some wry humor.

Queen Lucy gave a sharp burst of laughter. "Oh, no! He didn't!"

Marcie was not feeling very kindly towards the 'he' Queen Lucy obviously meant, but smiled anyway. "He did."

Marcie took up her sandwich again. "I take it that you weren't dumped face-first in the forest, hand still reaching for the wine bottle you've already emptied, then. You probably got something dignified, like a door or window or some such."

She'd meant her comment to be a joke, but could see the frisson of uneasiness that passed between the siblings.

"We got a wardrobe, yes." King Edmund answered her with an obviously calculated effortlessness.

Marcie harrumphed, choosing to ignore her gaffe and continue on. "Naturally! Then how fortunate that I've never been overly concerned with dignity, or I might get offended."

"There are worse places to end up than the Owlwood," Queen Lucy said, apparently electing to assist Marcie in defusing whatever tension was left.

"Oh?"

"Mmm. I think we have a bog lying around here somewhere."

Marcie decided then and there that she liked Queen Lucy very much. The queen's mouth was curled into a comfortable smirk that Marcie couldn't help but mirror.

88

A second sandwich, an apple, and several carrots later, Marcie was finally full. The talk had been pleasantly mindless, mostly Queen Lucy and King Edmund talking about various goings-on at the castle. Palace. Whichever. There was a fair bit of teasing between the two, and Marcie liked the pair of them quite a bit. There wasn't a whole lot of stuffy behavior or overly zealous attention to etiquette—a perk, since Marcie knew she was probably eating like a creature half-starved—and they didn't require much out of her as a conversationalist. And whether it was the food, the hangover, or a side-effect of the tea that Physician Paulus hadn't mentioned, Marcie began to feel distinctly drowsy.

Queen Lucy took notice as Marcie stifled a yawn with little success. "If you'd like to lie down, Marcie, there's a room made up for you," she said kindly.

"No, no, I'm fine," said Marcie. Another yawn marked her as a liar.

"We promise not to be offended if you'd prefer sleep to us," said King Edmund. "We've suffered through our fair share of late nights and accompanying consequences, and that's without having been thrust into a foreign land."

"Yes, and he's positively awful without sleep," said Queen Lucy matter-of-factly. "Grumpy and snappish. Best to just steer clear of him altogether." Her brother looked affronted.

"I am not," he said.

Jalur coughed from his corner, and the Wolf at the Queen's side gave a short puff of air.

King Edmund took them all in, and then addressed Marcie overgenerously, as if to prove that he was not, in fact, a snappish grump. "We've had a room set aside for you. It's in the guest wing, currently, but once we clear out a more permanent room, you'll have that." With a bit more seriousness, he said, "I wouldn't wish some of our visitors' company on you when they come."

Queen Lucy nodded. "They're…well." She looked like she was wanting to say it diplomatically and failing.

"Awful," said King Edmund firmly. "Overbearing tarts with more cleavage that intellect."

"Edmund!" his sister scolded. "They are not tarts! They are noblewomen and—and guests!" (This last seemed a bit half-hearted as she was trying not to smile.)

They engaged in a short staring match, which King Edmund seemed to win as he turned back to Marcie.

"Tarts," he said again.

Queen Lucy gave a snort and then coughed to cover it. Marcie just stared, as she had through the whole conversation, having latched on to an earlier point.

"So, I'm…staying here?" Marcie asked haltingly, feeling much more alert than she had been. Her heart was beating very loudly, she could feel it in her chest.

"Oh, of course!" exclaimed Queen Lucy, looking very surprised. "We're not about to dump you back into the Owlwood and hope you somehow make it back to England!" She laughed, but Marcie thought that this was a bit over-close to a worry that she'd had earlier for her to laugh along with the queen, deeply relieved though she was. "I'm very sure that Aslan brought you here and has some purpose in mind for you. Even were you not our guest, we cannot overlook Aslan's paw in all of this. You're welcome in Cair Paravel for as long as you need. Edmund and I are convinced, and Peter and Susan will feel the same, I'm certain. Aslan has been obvious in you."

King Edmund was nodding as his sister spoke, but Marcie felt another bout of apprehension.

"Peter and Susan?"

"Our siblings," said King Edmund. "Queen Susan is currently in Archenland, but will leave as soon as she is able. King Peter should arrive sometime this evening."

"Though I really would encourage you to have a nap, at least," said the queen. "And if you don't wake for dinner and miss Peter tonight, that's no real loss. It's nothing that can't wait until morning."

Marcie had no desire to meet another monarch, especially not today, and when it sounded like he was coming specifically to meet her. She was fairly certain that she would sleep through the night, and accepted the out offered to her.

"Then I'd appreciate it."

* * *

><p>AN: I apologize profusely for the long wait. Real Life has decided to give me a hard kick in pants and I had a couple of weeks in which nothing got done. I do hope that the length (nearly 6,000 words!) makes up for the delay. And again, you're seeing some characters that have been created by rhtstewart. She's been kind enough to send some readers my way, I believe, but if you haven't already read her fics, I highly encourage you to do so. Please let me know how you liked it-or didn't, as it were :) I deeply appreciate reviews.


	4. Chapter 4

May the usual disclaimers apply.

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><p>CHAPTER FOUR<p>

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><p>Marcie woke up with the sheets twisted around her legs and very little light coming through the windows. The hem of the nightgown she'd been given by Mrs. Furner was coiled, constricting her calves. She tore herself out of the bed, rearranging all of the fabric and sitting at the edge. Marcie was used to sleeping in shorts or pants, and the sudden excess of material wasn't terribly comfortable.<p>

She grabbed her glasses from the nightstand and walked to the window, shifted open the shutters, and looked out.

She was going to guess dawn, rather than sunset. She felt too rested for sunset.

The sun was only beginning to become visible over the sea, and it was all very clear, as opposed to the vivid color she was used to seeing. The stars left in the sky looked preternaturally huge.

A wind coming through the open window and fluttering the curtains eventually worked its way to Marcie. What had started out as refreshing was now rather chill, and the particular bare patch of floor she was standing on was numbing her feet, so she snatched the blanket from the foot of the bed, wrapping it around her, and relocated a smaller rug, not yet prepared to give up the view. She did wish for a cup of coffee, however.

It should have been peaceful, but it wasn't. All of the symptoms of her hangover were gone, but the feeling of general anxiety had not accompanied her physical ills in leaving. She was less worried about Narnia, now. How could she be, when King Edmund and Queen Lucy had been so very nice, and when Physician Paulus had chatted away with her with nary a blink? No, if she couldn't get back to England for some reason, Marcie thought that life would be good enough. Her earlier fears on her place here were more or less soothed.

She was upset because she didn't want to stay. Deirdre and Chase and the others would be dreadfully worried. Not to mention that she hadn't seen her family since Christmas. What would they think had happened to her? Chase's family home was out of the way, and there were five others that could attest to her roaring drunkenness. Would they think she was lost in the woods, or injured, or something even more terrible? They'd have to call the police, but how do you explain that your friend was perfectly fine and present—if inebriated—and then suddenly missing, with forest and rarely travelled roads all around, with the nearest neighbor being at least a mile away? And then the embassy would have to get involved, and no doubt there would be media coverage, and it would be a huge scandal, like all those American girls that got kidnapped out of country while on vacation and were never seen again. Marcie couldn't remember their names, but she could see their faces, had seen them often on the covers of magazines and tabloids while waiting in line at stores for the check-out. They'd take particular delight in her story, she knew. Prestigious scholarship student gets pissed (nevermind that she was legal to drink, even by the States' laws) and disappears. No doubt her friends would get incredible scrutiny, as if it were all some great scheme, as if it were _The Secret History _instead of real life. And there were certain members of her family that would not be inclined to keeping quiet, would make a big hullabaloo, no matter how often her parents told them to shut up, no matter that they hadn't seen Marcie in years and weren't good for much more than a Christmas card, and had no right to say anything.

She had to go back.

Eventually, the sun was too bright to continue looking at, especially as it reflected at twice the glittering level in the water. Marcie put things back in their original spots, and floundered for what to do next. Mrs. Furner had supplied her with a dress for today, taking her things to be cleaned—and probably mended—but Marcie was hoping to get in a wash before dressing. She'd only bothered to change clothes and shove her hair into a braid before collapsing into bed, and she knew that she could have used a shower even then.

Marcie was sure that someone, somewhere in the palace (castle) was awake, but didn't know if there was someone in particular that she should bother, or if she should just wait for someone to come get her…

Uncertainty was not helping her anxiety.

She made up the bed to keep herself busy, and in the middle of it there was a knock on the door. Marcie all but slumped with relief and forced herself to walk calmly to answer it.

88

She ended up getting her wash, though it was in a pond rather than a bathtub. (The exact logic had been something like, she could have a bath, though that would take a long time, or she could nip out to the pond and they'd make sure the Otters were chased away beforehand. No one would see her, plenty of bushes, etc.) Marcie accepted the pond, not wanting to put anyone to trouble. Though as for the "no one would see her" argument, Marcie doubted that. It should probably have been qualified to "no one Human," but again, Marcie wasn't going to stir anything up. What should a bunch of Talking Beasts care what she looked like anyhow? And they _were_ chasing away the Otters, so they were at least trying to respect her privacy.

Upon returning to the palace (castle), she tried to groom herself quickly because the dryad—bugger it, what was her name again?—had promised breakfast, and Marcie was very hungry, though it seemed impossible after the meal she'd had yesterday. However, her hair was a chore with the large, looping curls deciding that they wanted to stand in every direction, and she was taking rather longer than she'd planned. Affixing the bandage was another task, and Marcie ended up asking the dryad for help.

She was wandering in the hallway outside Marcie's room, and floated in when Marcie opened the door to call out. It was a bit odd, as one might think that dryads, being tree spirits, would do something more solid or grounded than floating, but no, they floated.

There was no getting used to this, Marcie thought. Dryads, besides being very supernatural and strange and beautiful, were all but naked. It wasn't indecent, or even very shocking, but it was disconcerting, especially as Marcie's eyes were drawn to the dryad's bare chest as she bent to fasten the bandage. Marcie didn't know why. She didn't have any particular fascination with breasts as she had them herself—and dryads were very thin, not much breast to speak of anyway—but could not seem to avoid staring.

Marcie was sure that she did not blush when the dryad—no, Althea, that was it!—straightened and caught her looking. Very sure. Almost completely.

"Thanks very much," Marcie said, perhaps a little loudly, to the dryad's knowing look.

"You're welcome."

A dryad's voice, when one was generalizing and using one dryad to account for all dryads, was not as floaty and delicate as its movements. It was much rougher, almost gravelly, even though it wasn't disagreeable.

Marcie followed Althea to the dining hall, trying to pay attention to her location. She was still in the stage where she knew that the directions weren't complicated, and that she'd get them eventually and remark on how stupid she'd been, but was still hopelessly lost at present.

Althea left her outside in the hallway, just as Ibiza had—though without the temper—and Marcie entered the dining hall with a sense of déjà vu.

88

"Good morning, Marcie! Did you sleep well?" Thank god for Queen Lucy, Marcie thought. The world would be such an awkward place without her. Once again, there was a seat one away from her that was obviously intended for Marcie.

At the head of the table—not to the opposite side, as King Edmund had been, Marcie noted—was King Peter. (Who else? It was hard to miss the pair of Cheetahs behind him.) A massive stack of toast and honey buns made up his plate, and, honey bun in hand, he was reading a letter intently. Marcie was glad his focus was elsewhere. Even just eating breakfast, his presence was imposing, and she'd hate passionately to flounder after the proper social graces required for a more formal greeting—hand-shake, curtsy? She didn't know how to curtsy.

Marcie sat. "I did, thank you. Should I thank you for the loan of the dress, too?"

She plucked at some of the blue material at her waist.

"Oh, no," said Queen Lucy. "Mine are all a fright. We have a few spare. The visitors we get always seem to leave things behind, so you get to thank their forgetful natures."

"I'll do that then. And, I'm sorry, is that coffee I smell?"

Marcie could not disguise her longing tone, but coffee was the staple of her mornings and she'd already been up longer than usual without it.

Queen Lucy laughed. "Yes, it is. Edmund said something about you liking it, and so we made sure there was some for you. Do you like cream and sugar as well?"

"Just cream, please," Marcie said eagerly. She was firmly not thinking about how King Edmund would know that she liked coffee, or she would probably show just how embarrassed she was now for having yelled at him. She fixed herself a cup—these sissy little teacups were really much too small, bowl-sized might be more appropriate—inhaled deeply, drank, and, "This is a very good roast. Do you know what kind it is?"

"I don't, but Edmund would. You'll have to ask him after he's finished with Sir Leszi. At lunch, maybe, if he doesn't hole himself up in the library. He's the only other person that drinks it, really. I much prefer tea. And I'm sorry not to have introduced you yesterday, but this is Briony."

The Wolf that was always at the queen's side nodded. "Good morning, Lady Marcie."

Her voice—and Marcie was sure that it _was_ a her, not like with Paulus—was very pleasant. Marcie wasn't sure why, but it surprised her.

"Good morning, Br—sorry, is just Briony? Or do you have a title?" Marcie felt hyper-aware that she was treading treacherous ground. The only humans she'd seen in Narnia so far were its rulers, and they treated each of their subjects with deference, so far as she could tell. Wouldn't it make sense that Talking Beasts functioned as their court? In any case, Marcie didn't want to offend anyone by assuming that the personal guard to the queen didn't have a title just because she was a Talking Beast. (Though if that was the case, Marcie hoped it wasn't a point of contention, or she'd have just put her foot in it with a profound splatter.)

"Lady Briony would be the appropriate title," the Wolf said. "However, you are welcome to call me Briony, Lady Marcie."

Marcie's breath whooshed out as her nerves were assuaged, and she thanked Briony. "Though if that's the case, you should call me Marcie. I'm not really a lady."

"Very well then, Marcie," said Briony genially. Marcie couldn't help but feel that she'd passed a test, even if it only existed in her own head. She helped herself to more coffee.

"And now I have to introduce you to my great brute of a brother." Queen Lucy paused. "Well, the other one, you've already met Edmund." There was another pause, though this was more pointed, as King Peter still had his head buried in his letter, was frowning in between bites of food, and paying neither of them any attention whatsoever.

"Peter," said Queen Lucy in a tone that said she was being very patient and would stop soon.

He looked up at his sister, noting that she was watching him, and that Marcie was watching Queen Lucy, both with the same side-of-the-eyes look.

"Very sorry, Lucy, but the letter's from Susan, which means I only get about every other word of it. And good morning, Lady Marcie."

The smile he gave her was warm, and Marcie felt her eyebrows lift, metaphorically speaking, as the physical action could cause problems. Maybe it wasn't surprising that the ladies from foreign courts were fond of baring cleavage.

"Good morning."

"I trust we find you well?"

"I haven't run into any thorn bushes yet, so I'll venture so far as to call it a good day," said Marcie.

"Usually an accurate indicator of the day's quality," he agreed. Then, seriously, "Though Paulus did see to you, did he not?"

"Honestly, Peter, of course Edmund and I made sure she saw him," Queen Lucy said cheerfully, preventing Marcie from responding. "We're not totally helpless without you, you know. The palace doesn't turn to ruins the instant you go off to build your road. Guests don't wilt and starve."

Marcie recognized cues from last night—or afternoon, as it were—which meant that the conversation would turn into Queen Lucy and her brother going back and forth, with no little humor, and demanding little of Marcie, and so she helped herself to toast and jam, as well as filling herself another cup of coffee.

She involved herself with her breakfast as much as she could without being considered rude. Their conversation had an air of use, as if they'd had it multiple times before, and now all of the original problems were solved and they just liked to tease.

88

Marcie knocked on Physician Paulus's door, hoping he was there.

He was, though his response time was not so swift as it had been yesterday.

"Lady Marcie!" he exclaimed. "A social call, I hope, and not medical problems?"

"Social," she said, smiling. "You said that you'd like to talk more about vision screening and I've found myself with a free morning and afternoon."

"Splendid! Oh, and do come in," he receded into his office to make way for her. "I've been thinking on it some already, and made some tentative plans, though I would like your input regarding structure of frames."

"Certainly." Marcie didn't know that she could help with that but was grateful that he was willing to include her in the process. She took the same stool she'd taken the day previous.

"Well, obviously, not many of Narnians possess ears in a position where making a hook around the ear would be sufficient as the sole means of, herm, attachment. Not to mention, that there are numerous Beasts whose eyes are on the sides of the head, as opposed to the front. Normally, this is a subject which I would leave almost exclusively to the dwarfs, they're so terribly adroit at managing these sorts of things, but I've made some preliminary sketches and would like your opinion. Humans are different from Beasts, of course, but I would appreciate any insight you might offer. I'm concerned particularly with the case of Hagne."

Hagne was, it turned out, a Tern who had lost a fair part of her vision after an incident involving a rock to the head.

"Too severe a loss to be convenient, or even entirely safe," said Physician Paulus. "It's affecting her depth perception in a terrible way, and flying is a trial for her. She's lucky she's survived, naturally, and not suffered any other impediments, but she needs any help I can offer."

If Marcie had ever doubted that the Physician was a genius, then his plans would wash those doubts away. His sketching skills were not great, as he readily admitted, but Marcie hardly noticed the rudimentary style of drawing for the concept behind them. If the Dwarfs could make it, she was sure it would work.

They discussed the plans—which really meant that Marcie called Physician Paulus smart in lots of variously complimentary ways because she didn't see how she could add anything of use to the existing design.

"You did all of this since yesterday afternoon?" said Marcie disbelievingly. "That's incredible."

"Well," said the Physician modestly. "I forwent restocking my bandages in favor of it, and am now a bit behind on my herb storage"—he waved a claw at the herbs hanging from the ceiling—"but I won't say no to inspiration, especially when Hagne is so truly in need. Though," he coughed, "the prospect of correcting impaired vision was greatly helpful in, herm, helping those plans along."

Marcie contained a smirk.

"Since it's indirectly my fault that you didn't get your usual work done yesterday, would you like a spare pair of hands?" she offered. "You'd have to tell me what to do, but many hands make light work and all that."

Physician Paulus accepted, though proceeded to interrogate her about the source of her idiom. Marcie had no idea, though they did get rather involved in a conversation regarding figures of speech that were the same, except in regard to the body part referred to. 'The right foot forward' was the right 'hoof' Here, among other things.

Engaged in stoppering jars, Marcie worked up the courage to address what had been needling at her all morning.

"Physician Paulus?" she asked, and he turned to her with a ready air. "I was wondering if maybe you might be able to—to help with a few questions. I'm not really sure who to ask, and if you can't that's fine, but maybe you'd know someone who could, I—I'm sorry, I'm rambling."

She smiled sheepishly.

"Of course, I'll do my best Marcie," he said. "Though I'm sure the kings and queens would do better, if your questions are what I think they are."

He made Marcie feel very obvious indeed.

"Yes, well," she said clumsily. "But it's that everyone has said that Aslan brought me here. To Narnia. Why haven't I seen him? Am I supposed to find him? But then I get the idea that he doesn't really reside anywhere, so how would I do that?"

The Physician looked at her for a little while and shifted around, and Marcie knew that he was trying to consider his answer carefully, that he was going to try to answer.

"We Narnians are fond of saying that Aslan is a Lion, but not a tame Lion." He eyed her. "I suppose that answer doesn't really help you."

He sighed. "I'd really encourage you to ask Queen Lucy, as she is perhaps closest to Aslan and sees His will better than many." He sighed again, and Marcie realized with a flash that he was actually nervous, or at least uncomfortable. "But, you've asked me, and I'll do my best, which is, Aslan does as He wills, and He will be there when you are truly in need, rather than when you think you are."

The look he gave her was probably apologetic—really, it was difficult to read a Porcupine's expressions—and Marcie gave him a little smile though she was quite disappointed.

"I'm sorry, Marcie, I should leave philosophy to the centaurs," he said. "I'm the Physician, what do I know of Aslan?"

"No," said Marcie, not wanting him to feel badly. "You gave me the answer as you saw it, and only because I asked. It's not your fault that it's not what I wanted to hear."

He was still looking a bit anxious, so Marcie inquired after a book she saw sitting on the shelf—_Materia Medica: A Guide to Common Narnian Ailments and Their Cures_—and they both latched on to academics with all the gusto of drowning persons gripping a life-saver.

88

Marcie spent nearly all of her time with the Physician during the next week. Part of it was that she had nothing else to do—apparently, Aslan still thought she didn't need to see him badly enough—and part of it was that she liked the work.

It surprised her that she did. She would have done it anyway, just to occupy herself, but she found that Paulus's brand of medicine appealed to her much more than the idea of modern medicine ever had. (He had insisted that she drop the title of Physician when speaking informally, claiming he spent enough time around her to make it ridiculous for her to call him 'Physician Paulus' every time she needed his attention.) Her spare time she passed with reading; she borrowed Pliny the Elder's _Animalia and Botanica_ on his recommendation, and it was consuming literature.

They visited the Dwarfs together, and Marcie was thoroughly impressed with their ingenuity. Was everyone in Narnia so clever?

A Dwarf named Thulin examined the lenses of her glasses with the same interest that Paulus had, and said he ought to be able to make something similar with enough time to practice. Thulin and Paulus then got involved in a discussion regarding the regulation of lens strength that made Marcie's eyes glaze over and caused a wish for a quick death.

Brilliant, she thought desperately, they're brilliant and I respect them both and I am not going to run away back to the palace (castle) with my fingers in my ears, singing children's songs in a loud voice.

She otherwise helped Paulus with whatever needed doing. 'Whatever needed doing' was a broad category indeed, and could range from scouring the garden and forest for herbs, to visiting patients, to keeping records. Combined with her reading, Marcie could hardly remember a time where she had learned so much. Even university level classes had not been so engaging. Paulus had a nearly encyclopedic memory, spouting off facts and minutiae at whim and making Marcie desire constantly a notebook and pen, or perhaps a tape recorder.

She once made the mistake of questioning if the time she spent with him was too bothersome, and got warned away from leaving him, especially when their vision screening project was still in its beginning stages. She didn't bring it up again, even when she spent two consecutive days with him entirely, excepting mealtimes. It wasn't as if she wanted him to tell her to go away, after all.

Marcie ate her meals with the monarchs, which was alternately pleasurable and nerve-wracking. This was doubly so when Queen Susan arrived, three days after her brother. She was kind to Marcie, very gracious, and Marcie enjoyed her wit terribly, but always felt like she was being carefully watched and weighed. Add to that, Queen Susan's incredible physical presence forever caused Marcie to think of how many times she'd combed her hair that morning, and remember just how much she missed foundation to cover the freckles on her nose.

But no matter how much work she found for herself, and no matter how enjoyable Narnia and its inhabitants were, Marcie could not shake a deep sentiment of unsettledness and upset.

She hadn't spoken to anyone about Aslan since she'd asked Paulus, despite his plea that she talk with Queen Lucy, but he'd been on her mind constantly. There were undertones regarding the Narnians' treatment of him, and his apparent power, which rattled Marcie. Furthermore, she had seen neither hide nor hair of him, and that was enough to induce some serious anxiety woes. She wasn't truly in need of him? Well, Paulus would have to forgive her, because that was the biggest load of bullshit she'd yet encountered since being brought Here. What did true need take? A near-death experience?

But death was not a topic she liked considering. That's what people at home probably thought of her as. Dead. She'd been gone for seven days—she'd think it too if she were them. Dead or worse.

There was the impression, too, that Marcie was not the only one waiting for Aslan. It was subtle, but also blindingly obvious that the monarchs had other duties to attend to and were, for some reason or another, not quite doing those most pressing. King Peter had his road, and Queen Susan had cut short a diplomatic visit. King Edmund immersed himself in whatever it was he got up to in the library, regardless of the delay his older siblings seemed to be observing, and had, at one point, made a remark that hadn't they other things to do?—the implication being, yes, you're busy but aren't you supposed to be busy somewhere else? Queen Lucy ignored the lot of them and continued as, Marcie guessed, she always had.

Marcie didn't suffer for a lack of good company but it was not the company she wanted, and she wanted even more the physical touch of another human being. Her friends were all properly British and didn't hug, but there was a difference between hugging and accidental bumping, a touch to the shoulder or arm, even just physical proximity. The closest she got to that was a seat between her and Queen Lucy at breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Nor was she sleeping well. Some nights Marcie would wake at the slightest noise and then take long minutes to fall back asleep. On the nights where she did sleep deeply, she had uncomfortable dreams that left her feeling poorly rested and emotionally drained when she woke.

She liked think that she covered it with some success. Narnia was, after all, full of stimulating people and places and ideas, so her enthusiasm was never feigned, but in the moments between those instances of interest, Marcie lapsed into a fretful, tired state of mind. Surpluses in time made her listless, so she busied herself, reading _Animalia and Botanica_ at night until she was drowsy enough to fall directly to sleep—this in spite of the afternoon reading she did once or twice. It meant that she went through candles quickly, but Marcie would rather that than lie awake for hours on end while only succeeding in making herself more tense and restless.

The morning of her eighth day in Narnia, Marcie slept later than she usually did. She'd gotten into the habit of rising approximately with the sun, but she'd been up especially late reading the night before. Her mind had refused to turn off and so she'd spent an extra hour or two with _Animalia_.

Marcie washed her face and dressed quickly before heading to breakfast. She hoped that she hadn't missed the monarchs entirely and wouldn't have to go directly to Cook for her meal, as the kitchen was as chaotic a place as Marcie had ever seen, and Cook was formidable with a frying pan.

She passed through hallways and stairwells, getting turned around only once, noting absently the unpopulated palace, and then with a bit more alarm when she'd gone down two floors without seeing a single Beast.

Some of this was explained when she reached the ground level. It seemed that every inhabitant of Narnia was there, chattering excitedly to his or her neighbor. Marcie had a distinctly sinking feeling in her stomach that could not entirely be attributed to a desire for breakfast.

It was surprisingly easy for Marcie to make her way to the dining hall considering the size of the crowd, and her anxious, sinking feeling intensified as she approached.

She got a whiff of the sea before she saw the Lion.

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><p>AN: _The Secret History_ is a book by Donna Tartt, where an elitist group of college students murder their friend and get away with it. (That's a vast oversimplification, of course.) Terns are a type of bird found in coastal regions. There are multiple kinds, one of which, funnily enough, is called a Caspian Tern.

And, as always, this chapter is un-betaed, so I apologize for any glaring errors. I'm not entirely pleased with the chapter but told myself to post it, knowing that if I didn't, I'd take the excuse to hold onto it for another week, agonizing over word-choice and grammar.

Reviews are much appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

So, some problems uploading. I blame the less-than-trusty fanfiction dot net.

A warning for swears.

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><p>CHAPTER FIVE<p>

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><p>Marcie was frozen in the doorway—and, really, what was it with her getting stopped at these doors? First Ibiza, then Althea, now this bloody Cat—staring. He was talking still to Queen Lucy with her siblings, and then nearby were the various members of their guard. Marcie had never seen them so relaxed, though it made sense. Who would worry about threats to the kings and queens when there was a god nearby?<p>

Aslan didn't look at her, or otherwise acknowledge her, but she knew that he knew she was there. However, she was standing in the doorway, useless, at once hoping to blend into the surrounding stone as well as interrupt the ongoing conversation with vehement expressions of displeasure.

The group was gathered at the head of the table where King Peter tended to sit. Breakfast was abandoned on their plates. The discussion was unmistakably serious, as they all spoke with curiously inaudible voices, but no one looked distressed. Queen Susan had her lips pursed and King Edmund was frowning. Queen Lucy wore an expression of amusement.

Then King Edmund spoke, looking like he found something ridiculous, and Queen Lucy interrupted him. She directed her next comment to the Cat, smiling beatifically, while everyone else huffed, puffed, and looked otherwise rankled.

Marcie had no idea what to make of it, and leaned against the doorframe, sure now that this was not a conversation to intrude upon.

Marcie watched them silently for several more minutes, in which the Four expressed a wide range of emotion. She had never before realized how regulated they were around her, because she could read them like books now. They smiled or grimaced or looked surprised without guile or control. The context wholly escaped her, of course, but there were no polite smiles or faces in poses of practiced smoothness.

She felt rather badly for them when they all, Queen Lucy included, became grim and apprehensive and a bit sad. She wondered what could make them all look that way as they were not generally unhappy people.

There was no boredom in watching them. Marcie could analyze endlessly the reasons for their changes in demeanor, but her eyes were always drawn to Aslan.

How did one go about picking apart a Lion's expressions? She couldn't hear well enough to discern tone, so the best she could do was to judge based on the reactions of the Four.

She was steps away from the god that had brought her here. This hit her hard and out of nowhere. Marcie still wasn't entirely sure that Aslan was a god, but this seemed more like stubbornness than logical reservation when he was right in front of her. And god or not, this bleeding Cat had (presumably, she still hadn't ruled out wormholes) dropped her into the wilderness of a world that was stuck in the medieval era and then left her there for a week before deciding that maybe she was worth talking to. But first, he would talk to the _other_ people he'd dropped into Narnia years before to smooth things over, because they'd magically forgotten even the name of the place that they'd come from and might be just a mite worried.

It wasn't precisely anger that fueled Marcie at this moment, so much as a firm intent, a focus—though certainly anger was a part of it. She and this Cat would be sorting things out just as soon as he was finished with the kings and queens because she was owed an explanation, by god. God. Well, as far as that was concerned, she'd just have to see. She was a logical, rational human being, and if Aslan was what she suspected he was, she could admit it, even if she quailed from doing so.

"—As she has been waiting for us so patiently."

It was odd that she could hear him, finally, and she was strangely unmoved when the monarchs turned to look at her simultaneously, their conversation with Aslan at an unmistakable end. Her purpose weighed like a hard thing in her chest.

King Peter was looking at her with mild surprise, and she looked back for a moment before returning to Aslan.

"We need to talk, Cat."

We should have talked days ago, she accused him silently.

"We do, Marcie," said Aslan. When he said her name, there was a quality to his voice that was pleasantly warming, in a literal sense. Marcie felt like she did after the first sip of coffee, a kernel of heat blossoming from the center of her stomach.

She raised an eyebrow.

"All right, Cat," she murmured.

She looked again at King Peter. "Is here acceptable or should this discussion be held somewhere else?"

Marcie knew that his siblings didn't miss that her address excluded them. And certainly Marcie had been self-absorbed for the past week, but she hadn't been oblivious. She knew power structures when she saw them, and it was even something she'd been paying attention to. She couldn't afford to ignore them, and so had seen the way they all deferred to their eldest sibling. They ruled equally, but he was _High_ King. He'd never been introduced to her as such, but the Beasts of Narnia didn't shy from using his full title in casual conversation. (However had she gotten away with just saying hello to him at the breakfast table?)

_High_ King Peter regarded the half-eaten spread on the table with a combination of wistfulness and amusement. "Here is as good a place as any. I think that we can safely conclude our breakfast."

The power structure worked perfectly. King Edmund snatched a cup of tea and piece of toast before exiting, Queen Susan passed with a nod, and Queen Lucy gave Marcie a small smile as she left.

Marcie didn't move from her spot against the doorway, half-watching them go. Her nerves were beginning to get ahold of her as she realized how close she was to talking with this enormously problematic Lion, and her gaze kept sliding towards him. She looked to King Peter when she noticed that he had not immediately followed his siblings, though Fooh and Beehn were already at the door. He was scrutinizing her.

"I hope that you get the answers that you need, Marcie," he said after they had stared at each other through a pause.

She flashed back to her conversation with Paulus with a grimace.

"And who determines what I need?" Marcie said bitterly.

King Peter winced slightly, seeming to understand her meaning perfectly, though he could not be referencing Paulus's thoughts on the matter. "Aslan's motivations are not always obvious at the first, I admit, but He would never cause you harm, or leave you ignorant when you should not be. I understand that you have reason to distrust Him, Marcie, but I assure you that trust is much more worthwhile."

Marcie could not think of a reply to that which was polite. She bit her tongue, and jerked her head into a nod, eyes on the breakfast table.

King Peter briefly had a look as if he wanted to say something more, but he must have decided against it. He said his goodbyes and left.

She closed the door after him, and might have locked it, except that she had not seen a lock on any of the doors in the palace (castle).

They were alone, and now Marcie wasn't sure what to do. She glanced askance at the Cat, but he didn't say anything.

Well. It _was_ breakfast time.

She pulled out one of the chairs at the table, arranging a spare plate around the depleted supplies of the serving plates, still standing. She poured out some coffee.

"Do you need anything?" she asked hesitantly.

"No, thank you, Marcie."

There was again that sense of warmth in her stomach. Marcie dropped into her seat and fiddled with a piece of toast.

"I've been so worried about being able to talk with you for the past few days, that I don't even know what I should talk about first," she said, frowning at the soggy slice of bread. "I've got a lot of questions, and some of them aren't nice, I'm not very pleased with you, but I just don't know how to start." She eyed the Lion from the corner of her vision. "I don't really think that you'll be helping me along too much, either.

"I guess mostly I'm wondering why, but that's getting ahead of myself in a way. There wouldn't be a why without the how, and in this case the how is so large that it rather overshadows the why." She swallowed. "Particularly in my case, I suppose.

"I mean, really, atheism just doesn't make much sense when I can look right at you," she said miserably. There was a burning sensation in her nostrils and throat, a signal for impending tears, and Marcie forced it back.

"I'm right, aren't I?" she said desperately, mouth screwing up. "You're—you're—"

She choked a bit, but He was suddenly there, very warm and soft. It did not make her feel better.

"What did I do wrong?" she cried out, hunched over in her chair, tears now creeping unchecked. "I wanted to—I did, who doesn't, but I couldn't, and there were just _so many things wrong_—"

His massive head nudged under her arm and she flung her arms around His neck, and then she was crying on Him for a long time.

"It's because I'm stupid, aren't I?" she sobbed eventually. "I think that I'm so clever and smart, but I'm just so _stupid_."

"You are not stupid, Marcie," came the rumbling, firm response. Her entire torso shook with it. "You were not made to be stupid and you are not."

"Then _why_? I tried, I did, I did try, but it didn't make any sense, and they're just so _awful_—" She hiccupped. "I can't stand them, I really can't. Hypocrites, all of them, nasty and thoughtless." Marcie said this last as viciously as is possible through tears, removing a hand from His mane to wipe fiercely at her running nose.

"And I thought about it," she said thickly. "For a long time; I never really stopped thinking about it. I read so many books, and I talked to people, and it _still didn't make sense_. Why couldn't I? Why couldn't I if I tried so hard?"

"Your fault, Marcie, has lain in matters of faith."

Marcie straightened in her chair, brushing at her eyes with a knuckle and sniffling, and looking at Him directly when she said, "I don't understand."

His voice was gentle when He said, "Faith is a gift, Marcie. And it is not a gift which _I_ give."

She absorbed this, still sniffling, though her crying was mostly stopped.

"That's not really fair," she said, slowly and with some trepidation. "I see—I see what you're saying, but that's not fair. I tried to believe, and I did for a long time. But I grew up. I couldn't just—I couldn't keep believing in something that didn't make sense, when believing was the only thing that made it make sense. I mean that…I can't just have faith. I can't make myself. It's not fair to say that I'm the one that gives the gift of faith when I don't decide whether or not I have it. It's not hard to have faith when I can talk right to you, and see you and touch you. I don't even really think that's faith, honestly," Marcie said, musing suddenly. "That's just trusting my senses and having physical evidence. There's no leap necessary to believe, then, because you're confronted with proof."

She smiled wryly. "You really don't make sense without the proof, you know. You have to have faith or proof, and it's obvious that I didn't have that first one. But I'm not sure at all that I can be held accountable for not having it when I don't control if I have it."

There was something distinctly disconcerting about arguing—though this wasn't exactly an argument—with Aslan. Marcie wasn't really sure that she should even be doing it, but if the Cat was going to split hairs and say that it really was her fault for not believing in Him when she'd wanted to so badly, then she wasn't going to sit back and take it.

"There's a reason that faith is a gift, Marcie. And did I ever say that I blamed you for not having it to give?"

She swallowed noisily. "I guess not."

Marcie took a sip of coffee, mulling this over. It was cold, and she grimaced, forcing herself not to spit it right back out. And then she had to chew on some cold toast to get rid of the unfortunate flavor. She stared at an orange afterwards, thinking that it would have been the more logical choice for palate cleansing.

King Peter had urged her to trust Aslan's judgment. Marcie wasn't sure she could. Even with the surety of her knowledge now, she found it—hard. Aslan didn't blame her for not believing in Him, He said, and she believed that. She was, for a reason that she didn't examine closely, certain that Aslan would not lie to her.

Fine. He acknowledged that not everyone had faith to offer, but then He maintained that faith was not a gift He gave. Well, He'd made her, hadn't He? Why had He made her in such a way that she couldn't have faith? Because that was really what it came down to, she thought. She liked reason and logic, liked to judge based on what she could see and hear and touch. So despite the fact that she'd grown up with religion, it had stopped making sense to her and she'd left it. It wasn't as if Marcie had wanted to be an atheist. It was hard—worse, in some ways than belonging to a minority religion. After all, it was assumed that atheists had no morals. You could be Jewish or Muslim, even Buddhist, if you decided against Christianity, because at least then you knew about right and wrong. As if ethical behavior was the sole property of religious peoples. Marcie had run into this kind of thinking more than once and learned to just keep her mouth shut. Despite the fact that Marcie knew the Bible better than most of the Christians condescendingly pitying her, calling someone on their utter lack of critical thinking abilities had yet to go well.

And there had certainly been denial of atheism on her part, at the first. She'd been what, twelve? when she'd really decided that organized religion was a lot of hooey, but it hadn't been a random choice. She'd had her problems listening in church, had talked to people and read up on things, and not liked what she found, but had no better alternative. She'd wanted an alternative. Atheism was bleak, really. No kindly father figure watching over you. No one to tell you that you were special and loved.

But, in its way, atheism had beauty. You were free to choose and live as you wanted. There was no authoritative force to punish or reward—you didn't have to do good deeds because you were afraid you would go to hell otherwise. And then, what you did had _meaning_. When the entirety of your existence boiled down to a few years, they meant more. You were forced into an intentional sort of living. No future lives, no heavenly redemption to look forward to, no karma coming back to bite you. No do-overs meant that it was important to get it right the first time.

It was, she'd realized later, the same question the existentialists had faced. And there had been, occasionally, a sort of joy from it.

And Aslan had made her that way. He'd made it so that she'd had to be convinced, needed proof. Why?

"Why let live a person who turns into a murderer?" Aslan asked, question jarring her thoughts.

She looked at Him in puzzlement even as the old arguments rose up. Could you choose who had a right to live based on what they had done or might do? There were endless scenarios. Choosing who deserved a life-saving medical treatment: the convicted criminal or the single mother of three? If you could go back in time and kill Hitler, would you? They were all variants of the same question, and despite her atheism, Marcie had responded to it all with, "We're not God."

She'd meant that there was no moral right in any of it. There was no way to see all possible angles or consider all possibilities. They might not make the best choice, because human beings were not infallible. They could comfort themselves in ethics, choose a lesser evil, but eventually it was all wrong, because life was valuable in all forms.

But what was "_we're_ not God" when faced with—

"You have free will," Aslan said. "And just as you would not deny a person the right to live for their crimes, real or potential, I cannot deny someone existence because they might not follow my paths. You have free will."

Marcie stared at Him, eyes wide, mouth open, considering her next question, because He'd said "cannot"—

"Your hands are tied," she said incredulously. "Or"—she stuttered—"_paws_, as it were. You can't—_your hands are tied._"

In her head the emphasis was '_your_ hands are tied.' This was—

She laughed. Omnipotence! Ha!

Marcie cackled hysterically for a couple minutes. She couldn't believe it! Wars over omnipotence, omnipresence, omniscience and—tied paws!

Entirely different tears from earlier were streaking down her face.

But even with tied paws, even with understanding Aslan much better than she had previously, Marcie wasn't sure that trust was possible. There was a certain amount of belief that came when one was confronted with one's doubts and they were shown to be false, but belief wasn't faith, wasn't trust.

Her laughter faded gradually. Marcie was tired, tired because she hadn't been sleeping well, and the reasons for her poor rest were manifold and profound.

Aslan was looking at her calmly, like He already knew that she was going to ask. She supposed He did, but she would ask anyway.

"Why am I in Narnia, Aslan?"

Such a loaded question! _Why_ am I in Narnia? Why am _I_ in Narnia? Why am I in _Narnia_?

Aslan said, "Narnia will have need of you."

"_Will_ have?" said Marcie sharply. "That's future tense. Why am I in Narnia now if I'm not needed until later?"

"Because until then, you have need of Narnia."

She looked at Him, and even though He was a Lion, she could see the kindness in His face.

"Aslan, I have to go back," she said eventually. "I—I've been gone for seven days, and nobody knows why. I can't just leave them, that's not right. They're my friends, my family. I have a whole life there. I can't just abandon it."

Her stomach felt all sour, and even though she was trying to stay reasonable and not get emotional and distraught, she_ had_ been worrying about this for seven days.

Marcie waited for Aslan to respond but He wasn't saying anything.

"Aslan!" she said plaintively.

He sighed. "You must live in Narnia as you would in England."

"_What_?"

"I am sorry, Marcie."

Marcie gaped, trying to get her mind to work, but ended up looking about as clear-headed as a gibbering fish.

"I—you" she spluttered indignantly. "Do I even get told if I'm staying here forever, or are you just going to suddenly shunt me to England forty years from now when you've decided the moon and stars are in the right spot?"

He looked at her tolerantly, not replying, and Marcie was—no, there wasn't a proper word for it.

"_They'll think I'm dead_," she stressed, speaking slowly, as if the Lion before her was an uncomprehending child. "Girls don't just suddenly disappear from the English countryside without consequences, Aslan! I have family and friends, and it's going to be hell for them! Or don't you care?"

He was completely unruffled when He said, "Of course I care, Marcie, and I do not think that you would suggest otherwise were you calmer. But for now I can ask only that you trust me, and assure you that all will be well."

She was left gaping again.

"Will be!" she shouted suddenly, angry enough now that she stood, sending her chair screeching back, and started looking for projectiles. The orange she'd eyed earlier proved serviceable.

It bounced away from Him harmlessly, and He hadn't even flinched. It only served to make Marcie even more incensed. People didn't just mess with her on a whim, damn it, or they'd hurt for it, and this blasted Cat had the temerity to meddle in her life and then lacked the common decency of being affected by thrown fruit.

"_You with your fucking future tense_!" she shrieked. An apple followed her declaration, though it was just as ineffective as the orange. "You—you—you _waltz_ in here after _seven days_! You left me _drunk_ in the _woods_! You tear me from England without explanation, I wait for a _week_ in an angsty haze like I'm some _teenager_ all over again, and now you're dithering around with vague answers about _my own bloody future_! Who do you think you _are_?"

Which, really, was quite possibly the stupidest question she could have come up with.

"Sit down, Marcie," He said firmly, but without ire.

She remained, quivering, for a moment, hands still in fists at her sides, but pulled her chair back towards the table and sat in it. It was an effort of conscious will for her not to cross her arms.

"You are in shock," He said, just as firmly, tone brooking no interruptions. "You are not used to the idea of a higher power being able to directly affect your life. You have been uprooted. And, yes, I have left you alone for seven days. I cannot stop you from feeling anger at these things, and I do not wish to. That is your Right. You do not have to love me. That, too, is your Right. You may ignore or hate me from now on, and I will not stop you, only continue to love you as I always have. You have free will. Yet there are injustices, imbalances, imperfections in this world that must be remedied, and you are able to remedy them. I have allowed you to do so. You are in Narnia. You must live in Narnia without expectation of returning to England." His voice became compassionate. "I know that this causes you grief. I offer you the comfort of knowledge, which you love so dearly: All will be well. For you and those you love, all will be well."

Marcie's sullenness had more or less faded as the realization that she really was not going to go back to England set in. She felt pale.

She knew she sounded young and small when she said, "But I want to go home."

"Narnia is now your home, Marcie." He was very gentle when He said it. "Is it truly so poor a country, Here? But you do not believe so, for I think that you have already begun to love it a little."

She put a hand to His mane and felt a bit steadier, even though she was sitting down and had no reason to feel unsteady.

"But I didn't believe in you."

"Were you given reason to think that I have ever faulted you for goodness? You do not have to believe in me to follow me. I am not so jealous a Lion as that."

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><p>AN: So this chapter is very, very tricky. I'm not worried about upsetting people for saying something that they disagree with. (Let's face it. With this fandom, that's going to be a given.) I _am_ worried that I have treated ideas disrespectfully, so if this is the case, I apologize. I had to step quite carefully with this chapter—again, not for fear of retribution, but because I wanted to get it right. There are so many things to address, and on one level or another I've had to confront faith, morality, religion, lack of religion, authorial intent, acceptance of meaning in a literary work, and more. These aren't easy things, they get people up in arms quite often, so, yes, I took my time with this chapter. I had to think. I had to make it work for me. (I tried to explain DEEP MAGIC, guys. That whole free will section about tied paws, imbalances, and Rights? Yeah. I'm SO in over my head.) But the chapter is done. Please review.


	6. Chapter 6

Warning: There are some foul swears contained herein. (Otters are involved, if that explains anything.)

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><p>CHAPTER SIX<p>

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><p>Marcie did not sneak out of Cair Paravel as such. It was probably impossible for her to do so—Narnia had all sorts of birds and small creatures that would make it hard to go unobserved even when one thought one was doing exactly that. But Marcie kept her head down as she left the grounds, and no one bothered her, though there were plenty of Beasts and fauns and centaurs and dryads and dwarfs that could have said something. She avoided eye contact with dedication because she was a messy crier, and she knew that her face would be splotchy and her eyes red for at least another hour, and she knew that if anyone else knew she'd been crying, she'd probably start crying again. It was part of the reason that Marcie hated crying: it was so circular.<p>

Whenever she cried, she wished that she were one of those elegant criers, one of those people who could hold a fixed solemn or sad expression and have tears slide out steadily until that small break in composure resolved itself. She'd tried it once, at her grandmother's funeral some years ago, and had been incapable. Her chin had started to wobble, and then her mouth had screwed up, and she'd hunted fiendishly in her pockets for the handkerchief she'd packed just so that she could cover up part of her face with it if she needed.

Marcie was not crying at the moment, but she thought she might soon.

She'd been to the beach before with Paulus to visit Hagne, so even though she had no intention of visiting the Tern, this was the direction she headed. The beach stretched on for several miles, and would serve for the long walk Marcie had unclearly outlined in her head. She had an itch that rebelled against stillness, and her punishing pace reflected it.

Marcie made it approximately five minutes on the beach before she started crying again. At first, she just kept walking, determined that she would not let herself devolve into a full-blown crying jag just because of a few drops of water, but then her glasses were getting smudged from the tears, and her surroundings were suitably unoccupied that Marcie didn't think her audience was large, if she had one. (If she did have an audience, they could go do anatomically improbable things with themselves.) She slowed, eventually stopping, and sitting herself in the sand, proceeded to be very noisily miserable.

She had too many things to cry about, was the problem, and not being able to decide what most deserved her crying just made her more confused and tearful. She eventually narrowed it down to two things: She couldn't go home, and she'd just had the most forceful paradigm shift of her life.

And what had that blasted Cat left her with? Some vague charge to correct imbalances, and a reassuring pat that, at some indeterminate point in the future, things would be all right. It seemed a meager exchange indeed.

(_Yet there are injustices, imbalances, imperfections in this world that must be remedied, and you are able to remedy them._ That was a purpose as intimidating as it was ambiguous. And what was she supposed to do, wander around with a set of scales and a ruler and start making things look nice and symmetrical?)

Her sniveling stopped eventually, and she walked on the beach for a while longer, long enough to discover that walking in sand was exercise to be taken seriously. She probably wouldn't be completely finished with her sniveling for a long time, but Marcie was all sniveled out at present. She was also faced with a rather important question: What the hell was she supposed to do now?

888

Her answer, for that day and the next, was nothing. Marcie slept, read a few pages of A_nimalia and Botanica_, and was otherwise listless and antisocial.

The second day after she'd met that blasted Cat, Marcie maneuvered slowly out of her room for the sole purpose of bathing. She could smell herself and her hair needed a wash in the worst way.

The sky was, for once, overcast, and the smell of ozone was in the air. Marcie smiled grimly because the weather matched her mood. She thought, for a moment or two, about the pathetic fallacy. She'd studied it before the end of last term and it seemed ironically applicable.

There was, however, a humid heat caused by the approaching rain and so the cooler pond water was refreshing, making Marcie feel more awake than she had recently, even when she was only submerged to her knees—because 'refreshing' and 'cooler' really meant _cold_.

"Oi! It's the drunken wench!"

"The one who can't hold her liquor and fell in a bush like she's had too much dick?"

"No, the other one, you fucking asshat."

"Shut up, fucking shithole. Go flick a tit."

"No Cats to chase us out this time, you hooched up hussy?"

Marcie had forgotten utterly that the Otters were normally chased away, and hadn't thought to ask for someone to do so today, though she was realizing very quickly that the chasing had more to do with the Otters' manners than what she had originally assumed to be a measure for her privacy.

She straightened herself stiffly, eyeing them with care. They seemed to have left off shouting at her for the moment, and were splashing around and shouting at each other, though still clearly anticipating some kind of reaction, possibly involving indignant shrieks.

The Otters were cute was the problem, and so their foul language was particularly shocking. Not, however, shocking enough. Marcie was not in a tolerant, kindly mood, and she refused to be put off her much-needed swim just because some Otters were tossing around crude insults. Especially since she'd needed nearly two days to work up the energy to even come to the pond.

Screw them.

"Sister-fucking shrivel-dicks."

The Otters stopped splashing and swam themselves around to look at her. It was slightly unnerving the way that they seemed to do this as one mass of Otter, but Marcie kept her expression still. It was difficult because she felt utterly ridiculous, standing, arms crossed, haughty expression, and completely naked.

The response of "titless cock-sucker" earned a few points, but lacked a certain amount of conviction. Marcie thought that they might be surprised.

"Dick-licking ninnies," was her rejoinder, and she injected into it disdain and some very real irritation. She then ignored them for a little while, swimming out to get her wash and shivering all the while, but dropped her imperious pretensions afterward because she felt much better when she could shout out the most vulgar obscenities she could think of, and with relish. The Otters, for their part, were formidable adversaries, and Marcie was old-hat at swears.

Marcie got a bit nervous when they swam nearer to her, but they never came close enough to touch. They seemed utterly delighted, and ooed and jeered and laughed when something she said was counted as particularly good. After learning a few new offenses that she might be able to shoot back at them on a later date, Marcie exited the pond to towel off and dress. Thankfully, her belongings had been left untouched. She didn't think she'd feel comfortable leaving them open to the Otters again, however. She'd seen a pair of them tussling over a fish, with an unfavorable outcome for all—most especially the fish.

"Suppose I'll have to see you tomorrow, incontinent shit-drippers," she farewelled.

"Tomorrow, wench," was the most polite response she received.

It started to mist as she ducked back into the palace/castle, but Marcie was actually smiling a little bit. She wrestled her hair into a more manageable tangle and gave in to cowardice by avoiding the monarchs at lunch, deciding to hunt up some food from Cook. She took a nap—she'd had as good a time as can be had when swearing with Otters, but it seemed to have taken up all of her energy reserves—and paged through _Animalia and Botanica_ again. She had to reread some entries a few times as she was forgetting their contents as soon as she finished reading them, which turned out to be more frustration than it was worth. She put the book on her bedside table and thought about having another nap.

She might have gone to Paulus's office and offered to help, since she was feeling ambitious today despite also feeling weary, but she feared that the Porcupine would go off on one of his inevitable tangents and she'd snap at him for being scatterbrained or something similar, and Marcie knew that he didn't deserve that kind of behavior from her. Either that or he'd say something kind and she'd start crying. Marcie was not keen to find out if Paulus liked to give hugs.

There was a knock at the door.

It did not open immediately after, so Marcie knew that it wasn't Althea trying to press a tray of food on her, and rose from her bed to answer.

It was Queen Susan with Sir Lambert. Marcie let them in, offering seats that were accepted and offered reciprocally. Marcie sat at the edge of her unmade bed and Queen Susan sat in the chair that accompanied the vanity. It was the first time Marcie had ever been alone with the queen—well, excluding Sir Lambert, but that was as alone as one seemed to get with any of the Four—and Marcie could feel an acute awareness of the untidiness of her bed and the circles under her eyes, an awareness which was strengthened by the knowledge that she was normally more well put-together. The three of them exchanged greetings.

"You're doing well, Marcie?" inquired Queen Susan.

The question was so banal, and the answer so obvious, that Marcie couldn't reply for a moment. She eventually managed an, "I suppose."

Queen Susan grimaced. "An impossible question for you to answer, Marcie, and I apologize. I had wished for this visit to be at least partially pleasant, and I have now blundered onto sensitive territory before a conversation has even begun; for if you have been given news bearing any similarity to what we suspect, then you are faced with an incredible loss, making 'doing well' a term of relative miseries. Again, you have my apologies."

Marcie saw in the queen's face a deep understanding which was outlined in bare traces of anger, and that made it easier, somewhat, to give Queen Susan confirmation of her suspicions.

"I can't go back."

"Then I wish to offer my deepest, most sincere sympathies, and those of my siblings, Marcie. I have a profound love for Aslan, yet His will is not always an easy thing to bear."

"Thank you."

Marcie stared at her fingers, twined artlessly in her lap. She'd worn her jeans today because they reminded her of home, but now they just made her sad.

"I won't fool myself into thinking that it will make your grief any lighter," continued Queen Susan, "but we give you an unconditional welcome. As long as you wish to stay in Cair Paravel, you may, and if there is any service you desire which can be provided to you, we shall strive to see it fulfilled."

Marcie turned to her, the vastness of the announcement breaking through her gray mentality and causing her mind to work strongly for the first time in days.

"That's not a small offer," said Marcie. Particularly if the queen had been using the royal we, which Marcie strongly suspected.

"It is the least that we can do."

It was, then, precisely royal.

They looked at one another directly for a moment or two.

Marcie replied at last, "It's very kind. Thank you."

"As I have said, we can do no less." Then, with a sudden turn in demeanor, Queen Susan said, "On what is hopefully a lighter note—it will not count as such if you are of the same mind as my sister —your stay here requires a wardrobe. We can't have our only other human inhabitant in the palace forever wearing the clothes of others. I will, as such, be borrowing you occasionally so that we may get you measured and fitted. It's a bit tedious, which is why Queen Lucy detests it so much, but it is not a large hassle and I hope it shall not prove too tiresome for you."

Though sure it had not been intended in such a way, Marcie then felt a bit grubby. Her jeans were fine, she thought, and had been laundered recently, but the tunic Mrs. Furner had found for her managed the difficult task of clashing with denim, mostly due to its shape. Marcie hadn't cared initially, and thought the design of the embroidery rather pretty, but missed painfully her overflowing closet and dresser and the abundance of comfort and color coordination it provided.

"I don't want it to be a problem." And, because she always managed to forget, "Queen Susan."

"It's not a problem, Marcie. Not at all."

"I—thank you. I appreciate it."

"Of course, Marcie. And if you can be persuaded, please join us for dinner. My brothers are, as per usual, being insufferable, and they will be forced to behave if you come."

Marcie promised to consider it, and Queen Susan and her Guard left.

Naturally, Marcie couldn't stay in her room for dinner now that she'd been asked elsewhere. It also meant she'd have to put on shoes. And, whilst wearing jeans, that meant her boots. No.

With the sudden desire to not be wearing anything from There, Marcie stole out of her jeans and stuffed them in the trunk near the bed.

Perhaps she would wear a dress to dinner.

888

Marcie spent a wearying amount of time trying to organize her hair, gave up because everything looked wrong, and left it down. The effect was less charming than it might have been with product, but suitable enough that struggling to make it otherwise was no longer energy efficient. Besides, hair was everywhere in Narnia. Even in the pudding once.

And dinner was, she supposed, all right. She didn't make any huge faux pas, but this was probably because everyone was being very tactful and acting as if Marcie had never missed a meal or received any upsetting news, unless it was Queen Susan saying something vague about how King Peter and King Edmund were remarkably more well-mannered than they had been at breakfast.

She was still not particularly hungry, but any time she stopped eating for too long either Queen Susan or Queen Lucy or King Edmund or King Peter made some comment about one dish or another that she simply had to try. Marcie was unpleasantly full by the end of the meal, but she hadn't wanted to be rude and refuse.

Yes, the whole thing was fine until King Edmund decided to bring up the Otters.

"Yes, Susan, we are complete brutes. Terrible manners. Fortunately, you have Marcie on your side—don't think I haven't noticed you winning her over to you—and Marcie can handle Otters, so Peter and myself are mere babes in arms compared to them."

This, of course brought on a question from King Peter.

"What's this about handling Otters?"

Marcie was silent and remained very still, as if any movement or noise would attract their attention.

King Edmund continued blithely, "The Crows have been talking about little else all day. The Otters apparently didn't know what they were in for when they started in on her this morning. Shot right back at them, and rather impressively, I understand, as the Otters were surprised into near civility for some time."

"Really?" said King Peter.

"Oh, indeed," said King Edmund. "And I believe the Otters have taken quite a shine to her. As much as they'll take a shine to anyone, at least, which is certainly more than any of us have ever managed."

"It is," King Peter agreed. "Otters sworn into submission—I'd never have believed it. But you're right, Edmund: if Susan has won Marcie to her side, we had certainly best behave."

Marcie involved herself with stirring a bit of stew as Queen Susan made a comment about how he'd better behave well in any case, and Queen Lucy agreed, mentioning some diplomat. Marcie had become very interested in the patterns her spoon made in the bowl, and didn't quite catch all of it, but it seemed that Narnia would soon be receiving a visitor. An expected one this time.

Marcie did not think she could be persuaded to attend those dinners.

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><p>AN: Yes, this is a bit…delayed. Sorry. It's that, despite knowing more or less exactly what's going to happen, writing is difficult, and I've decided to just post what I have for anyone still reading. Thus, if it is less than graceful, and a bit short, you have my apologies. Anyhow, enough whining on my part.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed or followed or favorited. It seriously makes me a bit giddy to see something in my inbox, and I am so grateful to everyone, and everyone has been wonderful and positive and I feel incredibly lucky.


	7. Chapter 7

Duke Dilly-Dong from Dickheadland was an unconscionable ass.

His name was not, actually, Dilly-Dong, and he was not from Dickheadland, and Marcie was pretty sure that he wasn't even a duke, but the title suited him nevertheless. She had, at one point, known his actual name and origin, but he had been swiftly rechristened after she'd had to pass him in the hallway and he'd insisted upon dragging her into the theater of his shock that there was another human being in Cair Paravel besides he and the Four.

The conversation had gone something like this, though Marcie took free license in exaggerating his already considerable ridiculousness whilst replaying it in her head, complete with absurd voices:

"By Jove! Can this be? A human being! For certainly I was raised in a society without humans and have never seen one before!"

"Sure."

"We haven't been introduced. I am Duke Dilly-Dong of the Land of Dickhead, and you must be…"

"Marcie."

"Of?"

"Here."

"Really? My sources—though they are everywhere and secret and make me practically omniscient—must have misinformed me."

"Okay."

"What is your business in the palace, Marcie-whose-name-noticeably-lacks-a-title? I see that you haven't been taking meals with Their Most Gracious Majesties, and am going to strongly imply that you're nobody."

"I live here."

"Then how come I haven't heard of you, lady? (And aren't I clever? Because I just reminded you that you aren't actually a lady, ha ha ha, and I would have heard of you if you were because I am Important and Informed. Did I mention that I haven't seen you at dinner?)"

Mr. Hoberry had interrupted the scene, thankfully, saying that Queen Susan wished to see her, and possibly go riding with her later in the afternoon. And he had called her 'Lady Marcie' which made her sure that he knew the content of Dilly-Dong's prattle.

Mostly it was irritating because nothing that he'd said had technically been impolite, and so she'd given awkward, insincere half-smiles instead of a scowl like she'd wanted. Maybe if she'd been in better shape that day she'd have been able to give him a twisty, politic tongue-lashing with a cheerful face, and she had, in the time since, fashioned several scathing responses.

Political maneuvers. She was going to have to learn those, wasn't she? Not an endeavor without hope, Marcie could be good with all sorts of people when she tried, but an extended effort of machination left her feeling rather sick of herself. She had done it to some extent with her father's coworkers and employers, on the rare occasions when she'd been forced to socialize with them—half thrilling and half petrifying, the whole experience—and she had done some wheedling for charity. Getting into university, too, and being there, was something that required at least a bare minimum of social grace.

It was something that she could learn, but there was a lot to be said for not being in the mood to do so.

888

Mr. Hoberry's mention of going riding with Queen Susan was reference to a greater ambition on her and Queen Lucy's part to teach Marcie to ride.

It wasn't a fruitless exercise, but Marcie wasn't very good either. Marcie was too used to things like cars and bicycles and green means 'go,' and having something that breathed underneath her was an entirely different experience in transport. She suffered through some riding lessons with a mare named Farina. (One did not, apparently, ride Horses unless the Horse consented to be ridden, a circumstance which essentially did not occur.) Farina was the gentlest horse in the stables, Marcie was told, and was eternally grateful for it. She had seen the mare Queen Susan favored and the animal was nothing short of terrifying. The queen was the only person allowed near her for fear of serious injury, and Marcie's only consolation was that the mare was not suitable for riding alongside a beginner. Queen Lucy's horses, on the other hand, were all very fast, but otherwise even-tempered.

She was being taught both sidesaddle riding and, well, how to ride like a normal person. Riding sidesaddle was awkward and unintuitive, and though both the queens acknowledged it as such—and her lessons focused heavily on riding astride—there was an agreement that Marcie ought to know how to put both of her legs on one side of the horse and not fall off.

Marcie still thought it was stupid and archaic and catered to the patriarchy, which she had somehow not managed to escape despite literally being in a different world.

Riding was also more physically demanding that she had first assumed. She felt sore almost always. Coupled with the fact that when Marcie was not helping to develop units of vision she was likely to be in the palace's herbal garden with Paulus tending and harvesting plants—there were gardeners for this sort of thing, but Paulus wanted to teach and that meant doing—she often went around Cair Paravel in a state of tiredness.

Some days she gave in to the tiredness, too. There were mornings where getting out of bed seemed the most Herculean of feats and she decided not to attempt it. And once or twice, she would be doing a task and have to suddenly stop and take deep breaths because her heart had started to pound and her chest had felt tight and everything was very close. Paulus would watch her nervously and try to speak soothingly as she too-quickly sucked in the stinking, overly-herbal air of his office, crouched on her too-low stool. He would then thrust tea on her. And then she would hover over her steaming mug, feeling very sad and helpless, and Paulus would look very sad and helpless. He would go over the properties of herbs he had recently shown her, with an occasional prodding, easy question for her to answer. It was a notable difference from his usual harried and detail-oriented manner.

(It was in this way that she found out that Paulus was not—blessedly, fortunately—a hugger, but a hand-patter.)

That it had happened only in Paulus's office was by dint of luck and probability, as it was the place where she spent a majority of her time.

888

Yet another shift that had occurred was to her residence. She had been moved out of the guest wing, and been given her own set of rooms, only functionally furnished so that she could further decorate them as she liked.

(This had been before Dilly Dickhead's arrival, which Marcie could only be thankful for. She couldn't imagine having to have a room down the hall from the man.)

Sometimes Marcie liked to think about color palettes and furniture, and could occupy herself with it for up to an hour sometimes before remembering with full force that, while she had resources, there were no magazines on interior design, nor online ordering, nor stores, nor Deirdre to confer with, nor a range of cultural references to consult. She would not have electricity; she'd have candles. She would not have posters with quirky quotes or album covers; she'd have tapestries and wall-hangings. She would not have a library of accumulated popular literature; there would be instead a small number of borrowed books that were made by hand—infinitely valuable, however freely lent.

She'd even have to be especially considerate about those pieces of furniture that she did want made—wood had to be taken from trees not Trees, unless specifically offered, and everything was painstakingly handmade.

She was going to have to learn how to build and tend a fire because fireplaces were the main mode of heating in cold weather. Or was she? Marcie was beginning to understand the motive her world had had for considering servants a necessity in the upper echelons of society, even if she could not agree. There was no running water—everything was sourced from a well, including the basin she used to wash her face in the mornings. Fireplaces needed constant tending, as did their woodpiles. And from the looks of the designs Queen Susan had had her look at, Marcie would even need help dressing in certain circumstances. Add to the list laundry, cooking, and cleaning. Marcie felt rather adamant that she could clean her own room. She didn't think that anyone would be disrespectful, but she didn't like the idea of someone who was not her dusting every cranny and corner of what was supposed to be her room. She was not, after all, embarrassed to scrub floors or sweep or polish furniture.

Althea had been the only one so far to act in such a capacity beyond the more general ministrations of Mrs. Furner and Mr. Hoberry, and there was something in the attitude of her and the rest of the household (palacehold? castlehold?) that was different from any period depiction Marcie had seen of servants interacting with the served, to the point where Marcie was not comfortable using the word 'servant.' That she had people doing things for her in the first place made her uncomfortable. She was used to doing everything herself, and hadn't ever had much problem with it being that way. If she didn't feel like doing laundry, then she didn't, and she'd suffer the consequences of running out of socks until she could summon adequate motivation. And that was fine. Marcie could live without socks. Having her laundry done, by someone else and as a matter of course, was a disconcerting adjustment.

But that was her life anymore, wasn't it? A series of disconcerting adjustments.

It would make a snappy book title.

888

And so it went. The Ding Dong Dickhead left, and was replaced by a Terebinthian earl, and then by a merchant from the Lone Islands, and a handful of eligible ladies—who were actual ladies, and not just granted the honorific like Marcie was—and another person from Calormen who wasn't so awful as his predecessor but even more politic. And King Peter returned to his road, and Queen Lucy went to Galma, and King Edmund went to Archenland and Calormen, and Queen Susan went to the Lone Islands and Telmar, and Cair Paravel was a sequence of comings and goings and it was easy to lose track.

Mrs. Furner and Mr. Hoberry had a calendar and a daily schedule that was very precise and accounted for the movements of the palace, and Marcie liked to look at it sometimes, feeling like the immobile center of a swirling, industrious storm that would never stop or die, only alter in intensity.

And Marcie—she didn't start feeling like she was at home, though she did get some wall hangings—but she made her adjustments, no matter how disconcerting.

And she had a job, she supposed, and it was a good one. She could learn lots of things, and her teacher was clever. She helped people. (That was what they were, wasn't it? Birds and Cats and Dogs and Fauns and so on, but people too? Not humans, though, never that, and thank—well. Well, it was just more interesting that way, wasn't it?)

888

Marcie went on a trip with Queen Lucy around Narnia. It was only for a handful of days; it was unofficial and solely for the pleasure of traveling through Narnia and visiting with old friends. It was probably the most relaxed Marcie had felt since her arrival. There was no rush or pressing purpose or social niceties to observe and everything around her was beautiful.

Narnia was beautiful. Marcie couldn't pretend otherwise, though doing so might have been easier in some regards. She could find nothing to hate about this home, as often as she cursed rough terrain or the lack of air conditioning during long nights.

Queen Lucy was hilarious, and always in a good mood, and prone to racing her horse ahead of everyone and encouraging Marcie to join her. Marcie, only barely comfortable on Farina as it was, declined. She was once pulled into some introductory instruction on knife throwing, and proved to have a decent arm. Queen Lucy was very pleased, and Marcie only hoped that that pleasure wouldn't later manifest itself in formal lessons. More than once, Marcie shared a look with Briony or another member of their traveling party that marked the mutual understanding of encountering the ball of ambitious adventure that was Queen Lucy when one was feeling rather less adventurous.

Marcie had never gone camping before, and sleeping with nothing more than a thin bedroll between her and the ground, and nothing but stray tree branches between her and the sky was all kinds of uncomfortable. For one, Marcie inevitably had a rock poking into her back somewhere that evaded any attempts to remove it. For two, the stars, though lovely, were huge, more in the way of distant streetlamps than distant suns.

"They are alive," said Briony when she asked. And she told stories about stars coming down to speak with people—kings and queens, sometimes, or someone special, or someone who was no one important at all.

The Centauress with them told a particularly good one about a star and a Sea Turtle, and Queen Lucy had one about a star and a magician, and then other stories were told because stories were important in Narnia.

Marcie listened, fascinated by a tradition that had, for her, long ago died out. All of her stories came from books, or were casually retold events of the day.

Eventually, Briony was roped into telling the story of Narnia and how it was made, with everyone chiming in at parts. Marcie had the curious sensation of hearing a creation myth that she knew was not actually a myth. She felt a kinship with Frank and Helen, planted here and told to get on with it, but she was disturbed by the way that Humans had never been made into Narnia, only called there.

(And died there.)

Because what did that mean for her?

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: So, uh, I promise the next chapter won't be depressing. It will have happy things. I swear. And hopefully it won't take so long to write... *coughs* Yeah. As always, I appreciate all thoughts!


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

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><p>"Thulin decided on a convex-concave lens unless something untoward pops up, correct?" Marcie asked. She was stooped on a stool at the workbench, bent over some parchment and making a mess of her notations. She had the unfortunate tendency to dribble ink and then smudge it with the side of her hand. "Simpler to adjust in power or whatnot?"<p>

Paulus hmmm-ed his agreement, examining the prototype lenses Thulin had provided. "All made singly. No reason to, herm, place them together when the power of the eyes might differ within one Beast."

"They should have a handle," said Marcie, slowly shaping her letters, which were not in the least caught up with the conversation. "If the Beast can't hold it then one of us can, I suppose, and there's no reason to have fingers or claws or some such in the way."

A handle, she thought, would also allow for labeling. Marcie wasn't about to put a lens in the wrong case, or forever wonder if she had, and she didn't trust Paulus to label anything.

"Different sizes, too, of course, according the size of the—"

Paulus was drowned out by a sharp series of taps at the window. Marcie stood, knees cracking nastily as she rose, and picked her way across the room to let the Bird in, dodging piles of papers.

A Crow hopped onto the sill and said, "High King coming with Princess Violeta."

"What is it _this_ time?" asked Paulus, grumbling.

"Ankle," said the Crow.

"I'm sure," said Paulus dryly, and began to rustle through the stacks of literature for the appropriate legal documents, huffing all the while.

"Thank you, Friend," Marcie said to the Crow.

"Sure, sure, Marcie," it said, and then, "Otters tomorrow? You didn't go today and I've a bet down."

"On me, I hope," she said sardonically.

The Crow's feathers ruffled. "Of course. And the odds are very good, though I think part of it is because no one likes betting on Otters."

Marcie rolled her eyes. "Right. Well, thanks again."

The Crow cawed and flew off.

She closed the window behind the Bird, which was harder than it sounded since she had to lever the whole thing up in order to get it to fit snugly back into its frame. One of the hinges needed fixing.

Marcie sighed as she cleared off the examination table. She might have been more inclined to feel patient about this whole business if she hadn't spent a summer assisting Paulus, as a summer assisting Paulus meant that she had tended a number of ladies who had fainted, all conveniently within arm's reach of King Peter, and with no detectable signs of dehydration, elevated heart rate, fever, or other illness. Marcie had given more than one a lecture about tying corsets too tightly, talking at gruesome length about dislocated internal organs to the women that had saddled her with a load of extra paperwork. The majority of them likely had not fainted due to their corsets, but it was Marcie's duty to make sure that no one—kings, queens, or esteemed visitors—was embarrassed and that meant finding a problem, and if she liked to be very detailed and pedantic about describing why, exactly, it was a problem then surely it was just because she took pride in doing her job properly.

Princess Violeta had already received such a talk, but if she wanted Marcie to be annoyingly concerned about her ankle now, then so be it. Marcie could do that, and Marcie would do that, because Violeta was the last scheduled visitor for the year. It was autumn and crisp, and the harvests were coming in and the leaves were going golden. (Something which disappointed the Crows—it was too cold for the pond and Otters except on the nicest of days.) All travelling abroad would soon be done carefully, as winter was known for rearing suddenly and powerfully in Narnia, and Marcie would be rid of dignitaries, even the ones that weren't so terrible, for months. Months!

It was the thought of those months—sleepy and pleasant and possibly even quiet—that kept Marcie from grimacing as King Peter entered the office, supporting Princess Violeta. She gave a nod towards Fooh and Beehn in the hallway, clutching at a jar that might or might not contain the makings for willow bark tea.

"Physician," King Peter said, levering the limp form of Violeta onto the table. "Lady. Princess Violeta injured her ankle dismounting from her horse. If you would please ascertain that it is nothing too serious; we should dislike our guests to come to harm whilst in our care, no matter the means. We entrust her into your gentle attentions and shall send the appropriate aid to assist the princess to her rooms after your evaluation is complete, as she is no doubt exhausted by the day's events. We would appreciate a report of your evaluation as soon as possible."

Princess Violeta, for her part, sat, looking faint and clutching a handkerchief. Marcie recognized the handkerchief as one of King Peter's; nearly all of the women who tried to catch his eye acquired one at some point or another. She wondered, not for the first time, if there was some kind of secret, international club where the ladies and princesses who visited Narnia compared notes with King Peter's handkerchiefs as a kind of membership token or mark of distinction. Or perhaps they were cause for bragging rights at home, whipped out casually to remind everyone that they had one, equivalent of a stuck-out tongue.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," said Princess Violeta. "You've been very kind."

There were some other bland pleasantries that Marcie mostly ignored. She set aside some bandages and wrinkled her nose at the jar in her hand, dismayed. (Paulus's sense of smell was much keener than hers and seemed to make a labeling system irrelevant.) She gave a short, inattentive bow when King Peter left as she was simultaneously trying to sniff at the jar's contents and hopefully make a more accurate identification on her own. Paulus was already asking Princess Violeta some questions.

"Did you hear any pops or cracks?"

"No."

"And pain? Can you put your weight on your foot?"

"N—no."

Marcie sighed again, but tried not to be too obvious about it. Of _course_ the pain was terrible and of _course_ her ankle wouldn't bear her weight. Or, at least, she would not be able to say otherwise, having used King Peter as a crutch from the stables to the palace. Really. And then Marcie and Paulus were expected to treat her with information they couldn't trust as accurate. She put down the mystery jar, giving it up as a bad job, and approached the pair.

"Princess," she said, attempting to appear smooth and calm, "I'm going to need to examine your ankle. We need to know if there's any swelling or discoloration."

Violeta looked rather apprehensive, but granted—and it was definitely _granted_—her permission with an, "Of course."

Marcie sat on the floor, crossing her legs and tossing her braid over her shoulder. The examination table was taller than the other furniture in the room, but was still quite short by a human perspective. Princess Violeta's toe nearly touched the floor, and she was small in stature.

With Paulus observing carefully, Marcie undid the buttons of her boot, sliding it off and then peeling away the princess's stocking. Violeta held up her skirts slightly, and hissed once in pain, which Marcie apologized for perfunctorily. (Somehow Violeta had managed to keep the hem of her dress completely clean of dirt of any kind, even though she'd just gone riding. Marcie wished sourly for her secret, as she always ended up with splattered hems whenever she wore a dress out of doors.)

Her ankle was, to Marcie's surprise, actually a bit swollen. The princess had actually hurt her ankle—and that it was such a surprise was its own sad statement.

She scooted to the side of the princess so that Paulus could better inspect her.

"No bruising," he muttered. "Can you move your foot?"

Princess Violeta hesitated.

"Try wiggling your toes," Marcie suggested.

This was met with success, as was a slow, up-down movement of the foot. A full rotation was less so.

"A mild sprain," said Paulus to Marcie, ignoring the princess utterly. As Princess Violeta had not expressed any interest in herbs or basic first aid, it was unsurprising that Paulus's bedside manner was so poor. He was, however, as enthusiastic an instructor as always. "You can see the swelling, naturally, here. And were it more, herm, serious, there would be bruising along here—" he gestured with a claw, and continued to explain to Marcie about what constituted what severity with ankle injuries. "A wrapping, some pain killers, and a salt bath," he concluded. "Rest, elevation. It will be fine."

Paulus slouched off to begin filling out the paperwork, and Marcie began translating for Princess Violeta. "You'll be fine within a few days, Princess, but you're to keep off of it and elevate it, on a stool or something similar when you're resting. I'll bandage it for you now to help with the swelling, and prepare some tea to help with the pain. The Physician has also recommended a salt bath. That is," she said, "that there are mines to the north in Narnia with a particular kind of salt that is helpful with sprains and the like. Soaking your foot in warm water and this salt will aid your recovery."

Marcie went on explaining. She had to be very precise, and make sure that all of the diagnosis and treatment was described explicitly, as per the legal documents that King Edmund would be wanting to have signed alongside the official report. She started the tea—Paulus confirmed that she had chosen the correct jar—and set about wrapping Violeta's ankle, feeling the princess's stare as she did so.

The princess had already made known her dissatisfaction that Marcie tended to wear trousers the first time they had met, at which point Marcie had been checking her pupils and heart rate (affronted expression and disdainful sniffs that somehow managed to communicate that Marcie ought to be skirted and scrupulously color coordinated, as she was) yet that didn't stop her from looking at Marcie now with an intrigued look, as if Marcie was some strange specimen of woman the likes of which she had never seen before and wasn't sure she approved of. Marcie did her best to bear Violeta's attention patiently, just like she'd tried to bear Violeta's swooning, and all of the other swoonings that summer.

She asked a couple of questions about how the princess had been enjoying Narnia so far ("Very well, except for being injured just now") and had she visited before ("Some four or so years ago, briefly"). She made some small talk as Violeta sipped at her tea, trying hard enough to be personable that she actually began to feel that way. It helped that Marcie was able to feel useful, medically speaking, and was not just acting as an unfortunate middleman.

Paulus began going over the paperwork with Princess Violeta. Had her diagnosis been explained to her clearly and understandably? Had her treatment been explained clearly and understandably? Were all of her questions as related to her injury or illness answered comprehensibly and to her satisfaction? And so on.

Marcie slipped out to the hall, where a dryad and a faun stood waiting, introduced as Maeon and Sotiris.

"Lucked out, hmm?" asked Marcie, grinning.

Maeon had a small smile for an answer. Sotiris said with a shrug, "At least she's actually hurt."

The unspoken _this time_ nearly made Marcie laugh. "Lots of ankle injuries over the years?"

"And a lot of saving King Peter from the after-effects." Sotiris grinned back.

"You'd think—"

Paulus poked his head from around the door frame. "We're done now."

They all filed in, with Maeon offering Princess Violeta a helpful grasp and Sotiris clearing the path.

A leaden, hot feeling settled in Marcie as Princess Violeta left the room. She had seen the quickly covered distaste on the princess's face upon sighting her assistance. She stared after them, frowning.

"An uncontrived injury this time," Paulus said wryly.

Marcie snorted, breaking from her grim reverie. Paulus had little patience for princesses interrupting his work who didn't even have the good grace to pose a question about anatomy. He was too eager to proceed with the project on corrective lenses and there was enough work in stocking up for the winter that already prevented it.

"Practically unprecedented," she replied.

888

Marcie went to dinner in the dining hall, since Princess Violeta was sure to be in her room.

"I'll bring the report to your office later tonight," she told King Edmund. "But it's not anything very concerning. Sprained ankle."

She tucked into her potatoes.

Queen Susan sighed slightly from her spot at the table. "It seems my new pile of handkerchiefs will be getting embroidered. Marcie—"

"Is going to be exercising her skills at mathematics so that the lenses will have a standard base curve, in the hopes that dear Hagne will sooner have an aid for her most unfortunate disability," said Marcie with a very straight face.

"Bravo," said King Edmund approvingly. "An admirable use of time."

"Besides," she continued, as Queen Susan raised an eyebrow at her brother, "I'll be seeing the princess at least once a day as it is. Say—" she thought for a moment "—immediately following lunch for approximately half an hour?"

"Wonderful," said the queen.

"And then Lucy will be back on Friday," reminded King Peter. "I think you can manage three days on your own."

"I'm sure to be on my own even when Lucy does return," said Queen Susan. "But very well. So long as you know that I know that you take a perverse glee in no longer having to ride with poor, injured Princess Violeta, Peter. Very shoddy of you."

"I—"

"Best not to fight against the truth, Peter," said King Edmund sagely.

King Peter looked both as if he wished to protest further and amused. Marcie smirked at her fork.

888

Marcie missed calculators. This was to say, she knew how to do everything by hand, it was just extraordinarily tedious and she had to triple-check everything, erasing and reworking her figures on the slate tablet before committing them to paper. She wished, too, that she'd taken a mathematics course more recently than three years ago, no matter how quickly it had all come back.

Literature. What had she been thinking? Because certainly symbolism and character analysis were helping her tremendously.

Well. The ability to identify mythological references was disturbingly handy, she couldn't deny.

However, it still didn't help her confirm Thulin's numbers on the base curve for the blasted lenses. And how he could pick apart which prototype lens had been which with a single glace after Paulus had disturbed their order escaped her. Marcie was not used to feeling like a feat of biological 'eh' but if she hung around Porcupines and Dwarfs for much longer, she might develop a complex. Were labels truly so unnecessary that they were rendered a foreign a concept?

She slammed down her piece of chalk, whereupon it rebounded onto the floor. Naturally.

She went to fetch it, crouching on all fours and hunting under a bookshelf with her hand.

A throat was cleared.

Marcie jumped, banging her wrist against the bookshelf's edge and giving an uncontrolled, "Gah!"

"Sorry, Lady Marcie! I wasn't trying to startle you!"

She turned towards the door to address the throat-clearer.

"Hello, Sotiris," she said, starting to stand. "It's all right. What do you—ah!" She took in the crutches Sotiris carried with satisfaction.

"The Physician said you needed these?"

"Indeed. Or, well, maybe not, but our charmingly chaise-bound visitor might appreciate autonomous motion. You can leave them at the wall there, I'll take them up this afternoon." Marcie brushed at some of the dust on her knees and reflected briefly that the floor could use a sweeping. "Thanks very much," she said.

"Of course, Lady Marcie."

"You'd think we'd have a pair of crutches somewhere in this mess, but I guess not. The Surgeon didn't mind?"

"I don't think she noticed, to be honest." He shrugged slightly.

That took her aback. "Just as well, I suppose," she said doubtfully.

"It's nothing to worry about," Sotiris reassured. "She's just— otherwise occupied, as usual."

"Undoubtedly," replied Marcie, though she had no idea. "I'm sure she's very busy."

He looked about to say something, but then apparently decided not to. "Of course, Lady Marcie."

"Just Marcie, Sotiris," she said, attempting levity. "If you help with fainting princesses, I'm sure this won't be the last time we see one another."

He smiled. "Probably not."

"Thanks again, Sotiris."

He left and Marcie stared into the space of the hallway through the open door, feeling thoughtful.

Thoughts were very good for avoiding math.

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><p>AN: So...I was planning on the chapter being longer, but I think this has been sat upon for long enough. The salt Marcie and Paulus talk about is a reference to Epsom salt, in case you were interested, very generally referred to here since the name comes from a location in England and having them call it magnesium sulfate seemed a tad improbable. So it goes.

Great thanks to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, followed, and otherwise shown an interest in this story. Especial thanks go to Heliopause, Starbrow and rthstewart. What lovely, lovely ladies.


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